There When it Counts
by Rainey13
Summary: Peter arrested for murder, Neal's father on the run... This is how I'd resolve the situation following the Season 4 finale.
1. Gone

**_A/N: So... this was started shortly after the Season 4 finale aired. And then the summer real-life doldrums set in, and the story languished. But with a new season looming, it's finally done - just in time to get it posted before Season 5 proves this to be totally AU :-)_**

* * *

_Let me give you some advice. In this life, someone always takes a fall. Don't let it be you…_

The words reverberated in Neal's mind, paralyzing him as he considered the meaning. He wanted to say something, to _move_, but he found himself incapable of doing either as he watched the door close behind his father.

_This__ was what he had waited for these last thirty years? __This__ was what he had searched for in the bathroom mirror, as he stared at the blue in his eyes? __This__ was what he had run from, or for, fifteen years earlier? __This __was the man he had let dictate so many of his life decisions?_

No, _this_ was the man who was running out on him, again, and this time leaving Peter to take the fall.

With that thought blazing in his mind, Neal suddenly found himself able to move. He pulled the door open, bounding down the stairs two or three at a time. He nearly skidded through the glass front door, but caught himself just in time, fumbling for a moment with the latch. And then he was outside, down the front steps, on the sidewalk, looking around. But there was no one in sight…

Except Jones, just getting out of the car by the curb.

"Did you see him?" Neal demanded, still looking around. "James. Did you see him when you drove up?"

Jones shook his head, studying the surrounding streets now himself. "No, I didn't see anyone. He was here?"

"Yes, he was just here. I tried to get him to do the right thing…" Neal broke off, taking long strides toward the nearest corner. "He can't have gotten far."

Jones had come up next to him. "Was he on foot?"

Neal took a deep breath and shrugged. "I don't know. I'm sure he didn't drive here, but I don't know if he had a cab waiting."

"Well, you're right, if he was on foot, he couldn't have gotten very far." Jones pointed to the car. "Come on, we'll drive around a few blocks."

Neal just nodded absently and climbed into the passenger seat. Jones pulled away from the curb, and Neal put his window down. Leaning out, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was seeing, paying attention to detail, looking for any sign of a fleeing fugitive. The fresh air against his face helped clear his mind somewhat, and he willed James to appear around each corner Jones turned.

To no avail.

He was vaguely aware of Jones, behind him, calling in an update to the BOLO – be on the lookout, James Bennett, last seen Riverside Drive…

And then that's where they were, back on Riverside Drive, pulling up next to June's. Neal was still numb as he put the window up and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Another car pulled up behind Jones, and he watched as Diana got out, hurrying over to join them. "Any sign of him?" she asked.

Jones shook his head. "No. We just drove around the neighborhood looking, but nothing."

"He was here?"

"He was in the room with me when you called," Neal replied. "I tried to get him to stay, to do the right thing, but he wouldn't. And I couldn't stop him," he added, his voice a mixture of sadness and anger.

"Neal, Peter said James had Pratt's gun when he ran. Did he still have it?" Diana asked.

Neal could only shrug and shake his head. "I didn't see a gun. But we didn't exactly have a warm family hug. He might have still had it."

Jones reached for his phone. "I'll update the BOLO, still possibly armed."

Diana stepped closer to Neal. "The Marshals are probably on the way, or will be soon."

"Marshals?" Realization hit, and Neal sighed. "The anklet."

She nodded. "That, and Pratt accused you of assault."

"Right. How much time do I have?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Things have been a little crazy."

"Yeah." Neal sucked in a deep breath, held it a moment, exhaled. "How's Peter?"

"Angry. But… he's Peter," Diana said. "He was making a statement just like he was doing a case briefing."

"I guess Callaway walked in while he was leaning over the body, gun still in his hand," Jones added as he joined them again. "Didn't look very good."

"Especially since Peter wasn't even supposed to be in the building," Diana said.

That caught Neal's attention. "What do you mean? He was leading the search."

Diana shook her head. "Callaway took his gun and badge when they found the anklet on Peter's leg. Watson was supposed to escort him out of the building."

"But Peter slipped away and went back upstairs," Jones added.

"Peter only took the anklet…" Neal started.

Diana cut him off. "Peter said he did it because he believed you didn't assault Pratt, and he wanted you to be able to propose."

"That's true… more or less," Neal said.

"Make it more," Jones suggested.

Neal nodded. "I can work with that." He pointed toward the door. "Come on, there's something you need to see."

He led the way inside and up the stairs, aware of the footsteps following him, but his mind racing to other issues. How times changed – a few years earlier having FBI agents behind him would have been a major concern.

The door was still wide open, just as he'd left it in his haste to get outside. Neal went directly to the table, starting to speak without turning around. "This is it."

Diana was flipping through the top pages. "This is what was in the evidence box?"

Neal nodded. "That's it." He moved to the mantle, sliding open the cover to the hiding space on the left. "Plus this," he added, setting a few more pages on the table.

Jones picked them up. "This is about your father," he said softly.

"It's proof that he lied about what got him arrested," Neal confirmed. "James Bennett did shoot his supervising officer. Ballistics confirmed it was his service weapon."

"There's a lot in here about Pratt too," Diana said, setting some documents aside. "And a lot of other names, some that seem familiar."

Neal nodded. "Ellen said the corruption reached high up in the DC ranks."

"You've looked through all of this?" she asked.

"No. I only had a chance to glance at part of it." Neal reached over and picked up a document. "Like here, a Joseph Callaway."

"You think he might be related to Amanda Callaway?" Diana asked.

Neal shrugged. "At this point, I wouldn't bet against it. And you should talk to Hughes."

Jones looked up from the document he was studying. "Hughes? Why?"

"He has a recording of Callaway calling Pratt to warn him about the search."

"Damn," Diana swore. "There was something so wrong about her letting Pratt stay during the search."

"This whole thing is so wrong," Neal said softly, reaching for his phone. "I need to call Mozzie before you take me in."

Jones and Diana exchanged a glance. "Neal, we didn't come here to arrest you," Diana said.

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "In fact, if you think it would help, we can say you weren't here."

Diana nodded in agreement, and Neal gave it a moment's thought before he finally shook his head. "No, if I disappear, that damages Peter's statement about why he took off the anklet, which would hurt the rest of his account too. And being on the run would pretty much be a full time job here in the city, so I'm not sure I could do much. Besides," he continued, his voice softer, sadder, "a lot of street sources won't talk to me anymore. I'm a… snitch." He hit a speed dial on his phone, turned on the speaker, and laid the instrument on the table. "They'll talk to Moz."

The phone was answered on the first ring. _'Neal, did you get everything?'_

"Yes, it's here, Moz."

'_Excellent. I'll be over soon. I can't wait to see…'_

"Moz…"

'…_what the evidence shows. I'll bet…'_

"Moz…"

'…_you'll be convinced that my theories aren't all conspiracies after…'_

"Moz!"

'_Neal, what's wrong?'_

"Pratt is dead."

'_What!'_

"James shot him."

'_I knew it! He was…'_

"Moz!"

This time, only silence greeted him, so Neal took a deep breath and continued. "It was probably self-defense, but James didn't stick around to answer for it."

'_Neal, he was…'_

"He left Peter to take the blame."

'_He what?!'_

"Peter was left alone with Pratt's body, and with the gun that fired the shot. He's been arrested."

'_What do you want me to do?'_

"Every street contact you've got, Moz, we need to find James."

'_Consider it done.'_

"He was last seen here…"

'_He was there?'_

"He was. I couldn't stop him, Moz."

'_We'll find him. What about you, Neal?'_

Neal sighed. "I imagine I'll be arrested. Peter took me off anklet to meet with Sara, plus Pratt accused me of assault."

'_But you never touched him!'_

"I know that, Moz, but a dead Senator accused me of it. Now if you can find some hidden camera coverage of the park…"

'_I'll see what I can do."_

"First priority is to find James. He wasn't in New York that long, so I'd guess he's going to try and leave the city."

'_Leave it to me. What about what's in the evidence box?'_

"Once you get the search started, I'll want you on that." Neal looked up at the two agents. "Someone will meet you…"

Jones nodded and started to gather up the documents. "I guess that'll be me."

'_I will meet with Intern Suit.'_

"Thanks, Moz," Neal said quickly, before Jones could do more to object to the moniker than just roll his eyes. "I'm going to give Jones this number."

'_Fine. But I need time to get the search started. I'll call him in an hour.'_

Jones nodded again. "That's fine."

'_He needs to bring the documents.'_

"He will," Neal agreed. "And he's going to make copies in between – lots of copies."

'_Good idea. I'll see that they're secreted safely in diverse locations.'_

"I knew you'd understand."

'_What about you, Neal? Do you need your attorney?'_

Neal considered that for a moment. "Not today," he finally said. "I'm sure I'll be arrested, regardless. But I haven't done anything."

'_As if that will make a difference to the industrial military complex!'_

Neal wasn't quite sure how to exactly characterize the scoffing-type utterance from Mozzie, but Diana's eye-roll was totally clear. "I might need some legal counsel in the days to come. But I'm not sure where I'll be."

"I'll keep your… _attorney_… up to date," Jones offered.

"Thanks, Jones," Neal said. "Moz, there's one more thing."

'_Hit me.'_

"Peter took the anklet off when Callaway was looking for me on the assault charge. That's the only way I made it up to the observation deck. But Sara…"

'_May not be on the same page.'_

"Her flight's in the air right now, and this is something I'd rather not leave on voicemail."

'_I will check her arrival time, and contact her directly.'_

"Thanks, Moz."

'_Anything else?'_

"I think that's it for now."

'_Then tell Intern Suit to expect my call.'_

The line went dead, and Neal pocketed his phone, but not before activating an app that cleared his call history. He turned back to where Jones and Diana were standing, but before he could say anything, a new voice got their attention.

"Oh, you are here."

Neal looked toward the door, watching as June walked in. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I thought I heard you come up here, but I was just getting ready to go to the neighborhood association meeting, and I noticed my car keys were missing. Since I had told you that you're welcome to borrow the car…"

Neal sighed and shook his head, running his hands through his hair before turning to the two agents. "He stole June's car."

"That explains why we didn't see any sign of him on foot," Jones said.

June stepped all the way into the room. "Neal, what's happening?"

Neal sucked in a deep breath and turned to face her. "James stole your car."

"Your father?"

Neal offered one single short, sharp nod. "Yes. Though I'd appreciate it if we could not call him that."

June was at his side. "Neal, dear, what is it?"

"James shot someone, probably in self-defense. But he ran out, and he's leaving Peter to take the blame. And, he stole your car to get away." Neal stepped toward the older woman, a hand going to her arm. "June, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, darling, it's not your fault."

Neal wasn't so sure about that, but instead of arguing he grabbed a pen and sheet of paper from the writing desk. The pen scratched against the paper, and then he handed it to Jones. "Make, model, and license plate," he said. "Plus, Mozzie's phone number."

"I'll update the BOLO," the agent confirmed.

As Jones made his call, Neal went back to the mantle and picked up a fabric bag, returning to June. "Here's your ring back," he said. "Safe and sound, like I promised."

"I never had a doubt," June replied. "Now, is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so. Between the FBI and Mozzie's contacts, they'll find James," Neal said, trying to put more confidence in his voice than he felt at the moment. "But there will probably be agents here with a search warrant."

"I'll have my attorney standing by. Don't you worry about me."

"June…"

"I'll just go call a cab," June said, taking the initiative. "But if you, or Peter, need anything, you know you can call me."

She held out her arms, and Neal found himself stepping into her embrace. He hadn't realized how much that was exactly what he needed, and he stayed there, arms wrapped around her, for longer than he would have guessed. "Thank you, June," he finally whispered, stepping back with some difficulty.

"One in a million – no, in a _billion_," June said, letting her hand trail from his temple to his cheek. "And don't you ever forget it."

Neal watched as June walked out the door toward the stairs. He took a couple of deep breaths and then turned back to the table. "What else do you need?"

Jones already had the evidence documents packed up. "I think I've got everything to get started. I'll call Hughes, get the copies made, and wait for the little guy's call."

"You might want to pick up a burner, so you can turn your official phone off," Neal suggested. "Moz might insist."

Jones nodded in agreement. "I see your point."

"But don't leave the phone off for too long," Diana suggested. "Callaway might get suspicious if you're not at the office and not reachable."

"Yeah, well, you know how smart phones drain the battery," Jones said. "And I guess I was looking in the wrong places for Caffrey."

"I can be hard to find sometimes," Neal agreed. He turned to Diana, holding his hands out. "Take me in, Agent Berrigan. Better you than the Marshals."

She scowled and shook her head. "Are you planning to attack me or run off?"

Neal shook his head. "No."

"Then I think having you come in voluntarily will go farther toward discrediting Callaway's charges."

"Well, let's go then."

Neal followed the two agents out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him; he didn't bother locking it…

_Just in case he didn't come back…_

Outside, Jones got into his car and drove off on his mission. Neal followed Diana to her car and slid into the passenger seat, buckling up as she started the engine. For the briefest moment the urge to flee came over him, but he pushed it aside.

Diana pulled out into traffic, turning downtown. Neal leaned back against the headrest, watching as the streets went by in a blur.

_How had things gone so horribly wrong…_

* * *

The church was quiet as Mozzie let himself in by the side door. A couple of elderly women sat in a front pew, heads bowed. Along one side, a custodian was busy dusting and polishing the carved stone adornments. A young priest stood near the front, talking to a couple.

_Holding hands, how cloyingly cute. Probably buying into the whole government-sanctioned marriage ploy..._

The man he sought came into view near the confessionals, and Mozzie gave up on his internal rant. There were more urgent matters at hand.

Making his way casually that way, he watched as the 'priest' stepped into one of the booths. After a careful observation to make sure no one was paying undue attention, Mozzie stepped into the other side of the split confessional.

The privacy divider slid open and Mozzie said the familiar words. "Bless me father, for I am about to sin."

"We all are, and you found me – again. Tell me."

Mozzie slid a photo through the opening. "James Bennett."

"Never heard of him. Who is he?"

"All the pertinent information is on the back of the photo."

"How many pieces you want him in?"

"One. This is very important. Bennett needs to be located but not harmed. He has a lot to answer for."

"And the fee for this locating service?"

Mozzie pushed a slip of paper across – one with a number on it.

A number with a lot of zeroes.

"Minimum," Mozzie said. "There's a bonus for fast service."

"Don't forget my commission."

"As soon as he's located."

"Consider the word put out."

"Then I'll be expecting a call," Mozzie said, getting to his feet.

"Bless you, my son," the other man called out as the door opened. "And leave something in the collection plate."


	2. Questions

_It still seemed surreal… no, UN-real…_

Peter sighed, staring at the closed door to the interrogation room. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in here, left alone to contemplate everything that had happened. And, of course, he knew that letting a 'suspect' sweat a bit was a time-honored tactic, one he had played himself from time to time.

He just knew he was damned tired of it now.

It wasn't even the glass-walled interrogation room on the White Collar floor. No, this one belonged to OPR, and showed their preference for secrecy. There was the door, of course, and the obligatory one-way window that appeared as a mirror on his side. Four straight-backed chairs and a small table completed the décor of the room.

His hands were currently shackled to an iron ring bolted to that table. For a moment, futility took over and he yanked angrily against the restraints. Unfortunately, all he succeeded in doing was making his wrists hurt.

_Neal would be out of the restraints…_

Of course, all that line of thought led to was wondering how Neal's end of the plan had worked, if the evidence was safe. When he'd said the words, that he could answer for everything as long as the plan worked, he'd meant it.

He just hadn't counted on a dead body coming into play.

And now he just felt so… helpless. He couldn't examine that evidence to see what this whole affair had been all about. And he couldn't participate in the manhunt for James Bennett.

Assuming that Callaway had even carried through on getting the hunt started.

Actually, he figured she had. If for no other reason than to try and cover her own ass, she'd need to at least make a show of looking for another suspect. And several other agents, including Jones and Diana, had been present when he'd made his more extended statement. They'd make sure there was a comprehensive search. But Bennett had lived under the radar for a long time, which would complicate things.

_It was a good thing that Neal and Mozzie tended to have certain ways to UN-complicate things…_

Or, sometimes, make things _more_ complicated, Peter acknowledged. But Bennett had snookered them all. The one bright spot was that James had not been carrying any evidence box when he ran out after shooting Pratt, nor had it been found by the FBI, which gave Peter hope that it had been recovered safely by Neal and Mozzie.

Of course, if James had shown up before Neal knew what happened at the Empire State Building…

Still, it was telling that Peter found he was confident of winning any battle with James for Neal's loyalty under these circumstances. He and Neal had been through too much together to consider any other outcome.

He looked up as the door opened, both surprised and relieved when it was Neal and Diana who walked in.

"Nice to see a friendly face," Peter said, trying to keep his tone light; despite his best efforts, his voice cracked just a little.

"They've had you in here the whole time?" Diana asked.

Peter nodded. "Seems like days. I'm guessing it hasn't really been that long."

"No, it's about six o'clock," Neal said, his eyes fixed on the cuffs binding Peter to the table. "This is wrong."

"It's protocol," Peter started, though it sounded weak even to his ears…

And obviously to Neal as well. The younger man pulled out his wallet and extracted what appeared to be a credit card – until he slid the top back, revealing a set of micro-thin lock picks.

"Neal…"

But Neal's practiced fingers were already wielding the picks, and a few seconds later the first cuff fell open. The second was removed in short order.

"Callaway's not going to like this," Peter remarked, though there wasn't really much admonishment in his voice.

"I really don't care," Neal replied, replacing the now innocuous-looking card back in his wallet. "Callaway's dirty."

Peter's eyes flicked toward the observation window. "This might not be the best place to discuss that."

Diana smiled. "I might have turned the recording equipment off – accidentally, of course."

Peter found himself actually able to return a small smile as he leaned forward. "Of course. Well, that gives us a little time. What do you know?"

"James Bennett has disappeared, for the moment," Diana started.

"He stole June's car," Neal added, his anger barely concealed. "Mozzie's on it. He'll have the biggest street army out searching soon."

"We figure he'll try to leave the city," Diana continued.

"You'll want to get warrants for video from the bridges and tunnels," Peter offered. _Concentrating on the details of the case helped keep his mind off of his own predicament._ "And get a watch out for June's car."

"Jones already updated the BOLO with the car information," Diana assured him. "I'll check on the warrants when we're done here."

Peter sighed and shook his head slowly. "It was self-defense," he said softly. "Pratt's gun was coming up. It was reasonable to think that he might shoot."

"I tried to get James to turn himself in, to just tell the truth," Neal said. "But he wouldn't do it. Peter, I'm sorry…"

Peter shook his head. "This is not your fault, Neal. You didn't shoot Pratt."

"Neither did you," Neal countered.

Peter sighed. "No. But Callaway walked in and found me crouched over the body, gun in hand. I told her Bennett did it…"

"Did you just say Bennett?" Neal asked.

"I think that's what I said when she and Watson came in."

"Well, technically, I'm a Bennett. I could…"

"No." Peter shook his head, and the one word carried a lot of force. "Neal, in what alternate universe do you think I'd let you confess to a homicide you didn't commit?"

Neal could only shrug. "Better me going down than you."

"No one has to go down for this. Pratt was dirty, and he had a gun."

"Between the FBI and the little guy, we'll find Bennett," Diana said.

"Yeah, you will," Peter agreed. "What about the evidence from the box? Did you get it out all right?"

"It's safe," Neal replied. "Jones is making copies and meeting Mozzie."

Peter managed another small smile. "All of Mozzie's conspiracy theories coming true."

"He is going to love it," Neal acknowledged. "Let's just hope there's enough evidence of some of those conspiracies to cast doubt on the spin Pratt's people will try to put on this."

"There must be," Diana said. "No other reason for him to be so anxious to get that box first."

"Most of it's probably thirty years or more old," Peter warned. "It might be hard to find proof."

"Don't discount Mozzie's paranoia," Neal said. "He has a whole collection of evidence for various conspiracies dating back half a century. Maybe there's some overlap."

Peter stared in disbelief – though, given that they were talking about Mozzie, maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. "Fifty years?"

"Maybe more. I've only personally seen one storage locker."

"Unbelievable," Peter muttered. _And he was only half joking…_

"What can we do for _you_, Peter?" Diana asked.

He considered that for a moment. "They haven't let me make any phone calls yet."

Both Neal and Diana reached for their phones, offering them up. But before Peter could do anything, the door opened again and several agents, including Amanda Callaway, walked in.

She didn't look happy.

"Well, well, look what we have here," she drawled, in that wide-eyed little girl voice that Peter realized he truly detested. "Agent Watson, I'm sure we left the prisoner handcuffed."

"We did," Watson, replied. She headed for the table, handcuff keys in her hand.

"Have a little respect," Neal said softly, shaking his head.

"What was that, Mr. Caffrey?" Callaway demanded. "I couldn't quite hear you."

"Neal," Peter warned.

But Neal looked directly at Callaway, raising his voice so there was no question what he was saying. "I said, have some respect."

Callaway's smile was small and predatory as she pulled the remaining chair around to the end of the table and sat down. "So now the FBI is supposed to take guidance in its policies from a convicted felon?"

Diana jumped in before Neal could say anything. "We're just saying that Peter deserves some respect."

"Is that so," Callaway replied, eyes still locked on Neal. "Tell me, Agent Berrigan, is it policy for you to bring in a fleeing suspect like Caffrey without restraining him?"

"Neal came in voluntarily," Diana said, and the two men in the room who really knew her could hear the barely-controlled anger in her words. "There was no reason to restrain him."

"No reason?" Callaway held up a hand, using her fingers to tick off her points. "He's a convicted felon, currently serving a rather tenuous probation for escape. This, after eluding capture in the first place for several years, and after escaping his probation not so very long ago to run to Cape Verde, a non-extradition country."

"There were extenuating circumstances," Peter said, consciously biding his words. "And he came back willingly."

"Not what Agent Collins' report said," Callaway countered dismissively. She resumed the points she was counting off. "Just today, Caffrey was on scene at an official FBI operation he was not authorized for. This, after assaulting Senator Pratt, and escaping his tracking anklet."

"I removed the anklet," Peter almost growled. "Something that was totally within the scope of my authority as Neal's handler."

Callaway smiled, a sickly sweet sight that left Peter stifling the urge to physically wipe it off her face. "Was there an undercover operation I wasn't aware of?"

"Peter believed me when I said I didn't assault Pratt," Neal started.

"I'd question the wisdom of taking the word of a con artist over that of a United States Senator," Callaway commented.

"I never touched Pratt," Neal continued.

Callaway waved that off. "You'll get a hearing," she said, sounding a little disappointed. "But none of this excuses being off anklet."

Not knowing what Neal had been told, Peter stepped in. "I told you, Neal wanted to be able to propose to his girlfriend."

"Fiancée," Neal corrected. "Sara said yes."

"And how did you come to decide to propose today, in the middle of an FBI search operation?" Callaway demanded.

Neal took a deep breath, sighed, and then answered. "Look, Sara and I had agreed to keep things casual. But then… I don't know, she got offered this job in London, and that made me realize what we really had. What I really wanted. I was late coming to that conclusion, and there wasn't much time. I just wanted to do something special before she left, and the top of the Empire State Building was about as special as I could come up with, given my current situation."

"Sara… That's Sara Ellis, from Sterling Bosch?"

"Yes."

"And I assume she'll confirm this proposal?" Callaway pressed.

Neal nodded. "She will." He reached into his inner jacket pocket and laid the contents on the table. "These photos were part of the package. They printed a few out for us, and there are more on the disc."

Callaway glanced at the photos. "Convenient. We'll be talking to Ms. Ellis, of course."

"Of course," Neal replied. "She's on a flight to England right now, but I'm sure you'll be able to reach her later."

"Hmmmm." Callaway pushed the photos aside, leaning forward over the table. "So I'm supposed to believe that you being off anklet had nothing to do with the attempt to retrieve the evidence box from the fiftieth floor by your father and another man we haven't identified yet?"

"Did you see me anywhere near the fiftieth floor?" Neal countered.

Peter managed to stifle a smile at Neal's non-answer reply. "I personally escorted Neal to the observation level on the eighty-sixth floor. I'm sure someone would have noticed if he had been in the search area later."

"We'll see," Callaway replied. "The warrants are being processed for the building security tapes."

"Good," was Neal's immediate reply. "You won't see me anywhere near the search area. And hopefully you'll find out how James Bennett got out of the building."

"Not very supportive of your father, are you?"

"He may have provided half of my DNA, but he hadn't been a father to me for thirty years. I'd appreciate it if we could not refer to him that way."

Callaway's answering smile was condescendingly sweet, and Peter found himself struggling for control even before she spoke. "Interesting concept of loyalty, Caffrey."

Fortunately, Neal stayed calm – at least outwardly. "I'm comfortable with it."

"Neal's loyalty isn't at issue here," Peter said, even managing to keep _his_ voice calm.

"Isn't it." Callaway's reply was almost a throwaway. "We'll see about that. But you're right, Mr. Burke, we should be concentrating on your actions."

_Mister Burke_… The demotion to civilian didn't escape Peter's notice, but he let it slide. "I've already told you everything I know."

"Yes, that Caffrey's father killed Senator Pratt – even though we found you crouched over his body, murder weapon in hand."

"I explained how that happened," Peter said. "Which part did you not understand?"

"Let's start with why you ignored my direct order and eluded Agent Watson…"

* * *

She wasn't worried.

She was _not_ worried.

It's not like Peter had never been late before. Cases got complicated – and really, wasn't that almost to be expected when the case involved corruption and a United States Senator?

And, of course, sometimes Peter simply lost track of time. One thing would lead to another, he'd intend to just grab a quick look at a file, and then it would be hours later. Or someone would ask his opinion on a case, and that would lead to a long discourse. It was simply something one accepted when in love with Peter Burke.

Elizabeth knew all of this, so she was not worried when the time came and went that Peter said that he would be home to take her to dinner. She wasn't even worried when the first half hour passed, or even an hour. It's not like she had made their dinner reservation for the time Peter actually told her.

Because she _knew_ her husband. And if he surprised her by being on time, there was a quiet wine bar next to the sushi restaurant where they could wait.

But exactly because she _did_ know her husband, when the time approached a full hour and a half late, she picked up her cell phone. It wasn't totally unexpected that she got his voicemail message, encouraging her to leave a message. Not unexpected at all, in fact. And she did leave a message – careful, calm, just wondering where he was and if he had an updated ETA.

She called again when he was two hours late, and again the call went directly to voicemail. She left a second message, still calm, but a little more forceful. _Please call._

Before another half hour had passed, she moved to Plan B. The non-answer still didn't mean anything bad, right? Maybe his phone battery had died; smartphones were notorious for that. So she tried calling Diana Berrigan…

Voicemail.

Elizabeth left a short message, just wondering if Diana had seen her husband, and if so, please ask him to call.

She managed to wait fifteen minutes before calling Clinton Jones.

Voicemail.

_She was not worried…_

She knew Neal had some part to play in the day's events, but Peter had said he was not directly involved in the search. Neal might not have any idea where Peter was, or why he was late, but maybe he'd at least know who to call.

And the fact that her hands were shaking as she pulled up Neal's number was probably just because she hadn't eaten much all day, in preparation for a grand night out.

Voicemail.

And she was not worried – _not worried_ – as she sank down onto the couch, staring at the too-silent phone.


	3. Wonderland

_It was a strange meeting spot…_

Jones allowed himself a small smile, and a shake of his head, as he stopped himself from going down that line of thought. He had to remember who it was he was meeting – which would totally redefine the meaning of strange.

He was at the High Line Park; technically, _under_ the park, in a small alcove near a parking lot that seemed just made for clandestine meetings. Most of the lot was empty now, the commuters having headed home for the day, and not much nightlife in the area to attract late-day traffic.

"Do you have it?"

Jones jumped, resisting the urge to reach for his gun. "Mozzie, where did you come from?"

"Wonderland," came the sarcastic reply, as Mozzie stepped into view. Despite the relatively warm temperature, he was wearing a trench coat with the collar pulled up, and a wide-brimmed hat tugged low. "Now, do you have it?"

"If you mean copies of the evidence from the box, yes." Jones picked up a battered backpack that had been resting by his feet. "Are we going to go through it here?"

Mozzie rolled his eyes as though that was the silliest question he'd ever heard. "Of course not. This was just the meeting place. But before we move on, your cell phone."

"I already turned it off."

"Take the battery out."

Jones did as requested, then put the phone and battery in separate pockets. "This is a burner," he said, extracting a second phone from a compartment on the backpack. "Neal suggested it."

"Good. Something that can't be traced." Mozzie gestured toward the walkway alongside the parking lot. "Let's get going. We need to hide some of those copies, and then get to somewhere we can review everything."

"You going to tell me where we're going?" Jones asked as he followed.

"Of course not," came the reply. "Just keep up, and you'll find out when we get there."

Jones just sighed and stepped up his pace. _Why had he even bothered to ask…_

* * *

_How had things gotten so f*cked up…_

That was the overwhelming thought running through Peter's mind as he tried, again, to make sense of what was happening.

He was alone now in the interrogation room; well, at least he was the only one being interrogated. Diana had been summarily dismissed by Callaway a while ago. Neal had been taken to another room, presumably to be questioned there.

_Given the caliber of the people Callaway had surrounded herself with, he wouldn't be surprised if Neal had the __agents__ confessing to something before long…_

He, himself, was still in the OPR room he'd been in since being taken from the Empire State Building. A couple of dour OPR agents had set up a second table in the corner with some high tech recording equipment – apparently the normal gear hidden behind the mirror wasn't considered good enough for the interrogation of an alleged senatorial assassin.

At least they hadn't tried to handcuff him again. It was less insulting, and definitely more comfortable. Besides, with Neal gone, he'd probably be stuck.

He wished he knew what was happening with the search for Bennett, or the evidence retrieval from the crime scene. Unfortunately, James had been wearing gloves, so fingerprints were out as a possibility. But maybe some other DNA, like sweat or hair follicles, might still show up to bolster his account.

Callaway was insisting on leading the interrogation herself. _Which actually just raised the question – again – of how she had gotten the New York posting. Actually how she had gotten __any__ leadership posting._ She asked the same questions over and over, as if expecting his answers would change.

The definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over, but expecting different results. Well, this whole situation seemed insane, surreal.

Callaway had called a brief break in the questioning. Based on body language, he figured she had needed a restroom break. Another amateurish display – any reasonably capable agent knew to hit the restroom _before_ starting an interrogation.

But, that did give him a couple of cards to play. He'd been here for several hours, and hadn't been offered any liquids. That was poor form, and he'd be sure to mention it to his lawyer, if things got that far. When Callaway returned, he intended to demand water before talking any further.

Then he'd also have an excuse to claim the need for a restroom break a little later.

The door opened and Callaway came in again, followed by Watson and Chambers. Both junior agents had been passed over for permanent slots in White Collar when Hughes had been in charge, and Peter had recommended against both, registering both as capable but too aggressive for their level of experience and competence.

Apparently Callaway saw that as a positive.

She took a seat across from him, that same sickening little smile on her face, as if this was all some game…

_Instead of his very life._

"Now, Mr. Burke, shall we try this again. Tell me…"

"I'd like some water. Please." That last word hurt, but he was damned if he was going to lose control, or give them anything else to hold over his head.

"You're hardly in a position to be dictating terms here."

"No? Well, so far you've held me here for several hours without food or drink. I'll be mentioning that to my lawyer. Oh, and that reminds me – you haven't given me my phone call yet. I seem to recall asking about that quite some time ago."

"Are you invoking your right to remain silent? Only guilty people do that."

"Actually, people with good sense invoke their Constitutional rights when they're being railroaded. I have nothing to hide, so I've continued to answer your questions. But since you seem intent on pursuing a case against me, my lawyer should be able to start preparing a defense. Now when do I get my phone call?"

"I'd like to know the answer to that myself."

Everyone turned toward the door, and Callaway jumped to her feet. "Director Bancroft, sir."

Jonas Bancroft walked into the interrogation room, looking every bit the associate director that he was now in the FBI hierarchy. He was followed by another agent – and a very familiar recently retired agent.

"You haven't given him a phone call yet?" Reese Hughes asked, shaking his head.

Callaway drew herself up to her full height, which still left her several inches shorter than either Bancroft or Hughes. "Technically, Mr. Burke has not invoked his Fifth Amendment rights. And I'm not sure what business it is of yours, Mr. Hughes, since you're no longer employed by the Bureau."

"It's his business if I say it is," Bancroft replied. "Now, with the death of a United States Senator, the Secret Service will be on scene soon to do their own questioning. I'd like to have everything in order on our end before that happens." He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "Let's see what we have, and we'll get you your phone call."

"Sir, about that," Peter began. "I don't think my wife has been notified yet. She was expecting me for dinner, so she's probably worried by now."

Bancroft nodded. "Where is Agent Burke's phone?" he asked Callaway.

"I don't even know how to explain this over the phone," Peter admitted.

"Let's recap, and then I'll go see Elizabeth myself," Hughes offered. "She knows me, that might make it a little easier."

Peter just nodded, grateful for the offer. _Though he really wasn't sure that anything was going to ease the news that he'd been arrested for murder…_

* * *

_If this was for anyone else besides Peter, he would have left the game a long time ago…_

They'd made several quick stops, dropping off copies of the evidence. There had been a nondescript black sedan waiting about a block from where Jones had met Mozzie. And apparently the route had been pre-planned. There was a mailing and shipping store, where they mailed two sets of copies to addresses Jones wasn't allowed to see. Then it was Madison Square Park, where the tulips outside the children's playground hid a secret panel. Then there was the seemingly abandoned warehouse, the decrepit tugboat moored near the Intrepid, the fake rock near the snow leopard enclosure at Central Park Zoo – and Jones was positive he didn't want to know how they got in there after hours – and then two more parks…

_Seriously, wasn't there any security in these parks to prevent secret stash compartments from being dug or cut out under the statues…_

It was only after all of that when Mozzie announced they were finally headed to their true destination. And from here, they wouldn't be taking the car. The driver was dismissed to take care of the final two sets of back-up copies while Jones and Mozzie set out on their own odyssey.

Three subway lines – four, if you count the time they went back the same way they had come for two stops. Exiting into the dark somewhere on the lower East side, only to disappear almost immediately into a subterranean parking garage. The yellow girlfriend waiting…

How the hell had Mozzie actually managed to hang onto that 5V78 medallion anyway?

Blackout curtains around the back seat passenger compartment…

_Seriously?_

There followed a harrowing ride on the streets of New York, and Jones tried mightily to keep track of the twists and turns within his dark cocoon. It really felt, however, like they might simply be turning randomly at each corner, and they might, actually, be going in circles. In fact, when they stopped, and the curtains were pulled back, He was almost convinced that they were just back in the same underground parking structure.

_Knowing Mozzie, maybe they were…_

"Here, put this on."

Jones looked over, and shook his head. "No way. I'm not wearing a blindfold."

"Oh, you are if you want to go any farther."

"Look, I know how to keep a secret."

"'The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep.' Know who said that, Quantico?"

"No, I don't, and I don't care. No blindfold."

"Then this is as far as you go."

"Mozzie, look, I'm trying to help."

Mozzie's stern expression softened, just a little. "Not my rules, Jones. There are specific security protocols my contact requires before we can proceed."

Jones opened his mouth to argue – but then he thought about Peter, probably being put through the wringer for a Senator's death. "Fine," he finally said. "But I need to call Diana and check in first."

Mozzie shook his head, holding out the blindfold again. "No reception here. But you'll be able to make contact where we're going."

"You're sure."

That got a quirked eyebrow and the hint of a smile from the other man. "Believe me, reception won't be a problem."

Jones sighed and took the blindfold, settling it over his eyes. "You better not run me into any walls," he warned, reaching out blindly until Mozzie took his arm.

"For the moment, our interests are the same," Mozzie replied as they set off. "You're quite safe."

_Yeah, well, Diana still got to deal with Mozzie __next__ time…_

They walked for several minutes, and except for one uneven spot that left Jones stumbling momentarily, the trek was uneventful. Finally, they stopped, and Jones heard some sort of staccato knocking that he assumed was a code. A moment later there was the sound of an electronic lock coming free, and a door slid open. They moved forward a few feet, and the door slid again, this time shutting with a loud _clank_.

"You can look now," Mozzie said.

Jones pulled the blindfold off, blinking a few times after the enforced darkness. As his vision cleared, he could see a room filled with every manner of electronics. A dozen or more monitors were aligned against the far wall, and more were on a workstation to his right. Mozzie was already moving that way, and the person seated in what appeared to be a command center turned…

"Vulture?"

She smiled, just a little. "Sally," she replied, then turned her attention to Mozzie. "There are thirteen independent security systems so far, in addition to the building."

Jones stepped closer, looking at the monitors. "That's all from inside the Empire State Building?"

"Of course it is," Mozzie replied. He took a seat at another keyboard and started to pull something up. "There's building surveillance, naturally."

"Some of the tenants have their own systems," Sally added. "I've been scanning the whole area." She paused with a soft tsk. "Most of the security systems aren't really very secure."

"So we're hoping to find Bennett on there, right?" Jones guessed.

"At the very least, prove that he was skulking around at the same time as the shooting," Mozzie confirmed. "If we can find him with a gun, even better."

"What about finding him now? Can you get traffic…"

Both Mozzie and Sally pointed to a third work station. "Already have the search running," Sally said.

"Suit Jones needs to make a secure call," Mozzie said.

Sally nodded and indicated a phone set just inside the door. "Use that one. It's secure. But you should still keep the call under ten minutes. I didn't have much time so it's only routed through twelve changing stations."

"Only twelve…" Jones stopped himself before going any further. "Ten minutes should be fine. I can always call back later."

Sally nodded, already back at work on her keyboard. "The twelve stations will rotate with each call."

_Of course they would…_

As Sally and Mozzie immersed themselves with their respective keyboards and computer screens, Jones picked up the phone. It would be good to find out what was going on back in the real world.


	4. Bad News

When the knock on the door finally came, it seemed to Elizabeth as though someone was firing off a cannon. Each rap boomed and echoed through the house.

Where she had _not_ been worrying.

Satchmo was at the door, alert but not bristling. Someone the dog was familiar with?

She moved unsteadily toward the door.

_Was this it? That moment when the anonymous man in the Brooks Brothers suit would give her the news that she'd dreaded for so many years, that this time it was worse than a bruised collar bone and a concussion…_

She sucked in a deep breath, wrapped her hand firmly around the knob, and pulled the door open.

"Reese!"

"Hello, Elizabeth. May I come in?"

"Of course." She stepped back automatically – _one should always be polite to visitors_.

Hughes closed the door behind him, and paused briefly to scratch Satchmo behind the ears. Then he gestured to the couch. "Let's sit down."

Elizabeth found herself rooted in place. She opened her mouth to speak, but it took an extra moment before any sound came out. "Is Peter… is he…"

Hughes stepped around the coffee table, reaching for her hand. "Elizabeth, Peter is fine – physically." He tugged gently, leading her around the table. "Sit down."

She sat, breathing just a little easier. "Physically," she repeated. "But?"

"He's been arrested."

"What?"

"Senator Pratt was shot. Callaway arrested Peter for it."

She understood the individual words, but taken together they made no sense. "Peter shot Pratt?"

"According to Peter, James Bennett shot Pratt."

"But they arrested Peter?"

"Bennett ran, leaving Peter with the gun, and the body."

"The body…" Elizabeth let that sink in. "So it was murder?"

"According to Peter, it was self-defense."

"Then why is he under arrest?"

"When Bennett ran, he took Pratt's gun with him."

Elizabeth sank back against the cushions. "There were no witnesses?"

Hughes shook his head. "Apparently not."

"What about Neal? Was he involved?"

Hughes hesitated a bit before answering. "I don't have a lot of detail," he started. "There were too many other people around to get into any specifics. But from what I can gather, Neal had his own role to play elsewhere in the building. He was on his way out when the shooting happened, and had no idea anything had gone wrong."

"But it's that damn evidence box! If he hadn't gotten Peter involved…"

Hughes' hand on her arm stopped her. "It's true that the existence of that box only came to light because of Caffrey," he said. "But Elizabeth, you've known Peter almost as long as I have. Once he knew there was evidence of potential corruption out there, do you think anything would have stopped him from going after it?"

He had a point. "No," she admitted. "Did they get the evidence out?"

"I think so. At least, it doesn't appear that Callaway has it. I'm meeting with Diana Berrigan after this, and she might have more information."

"Neal wouldn't tell you?"

"Elizabeth, he's been arrested too. Between OPR and Secret Service, there were way too many people around to ask."

"But if Neal wasn't involved in the shooting…"

"Pratt had accused Caffrey and his father of assault earlier in the day. Plus, Peter had taken him off anklet, which raises questions with a lot of people who are trying very hard to look important right now."

"Does he know where his father is?"

Hughes shook his head. "I don't think so. He turned himself in voluntarily, though it wouldn't surprise me if he set a few things in motion beforehand."

Elizabeth made a mental note to call Mozzie as soon as Hughes left…

Almost as though he was reading her mind, Hughes reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "I have no concrete knowledge of any wiretapping authorized on your home phone, or any intercept on your cell phone," he said. "But, just in case, use this for any calls you might not want to have on the record. And you might want to consider not making those calls inside the house."

She let the impact of those words sink in for a moment – _they might be tapping her phone, bugging her house…_ "I understand."

"Do you and Peter have a criminal attorney?"

"We've never needed one," she replied, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Then, a bit more calmly. "We have an attorney who's done civil law work for us. He's with a large firm, I can ask if he can recommend someone."

"That's a good idea."

"Does Peter need an attorney tonight?"

"He says no. But a dead Senator is going to make a lot of headlines. You should try to get someone as soon as you can. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they show up here with a search warrant tomorrow morning, so it would be good to have someone here too."

That sounded familiar – she could still see the sneer on the face of Kyle Collins when he'd come armed with a warrant.

_But this time she thought most of the planning had been done at Neal's…_

"Does June Ellington know what's going on? If they're going to search here, her house is probably targeted too."

"I only had a few minutes to talk to Berrigan, but I got the impression Mrs. Ellington was forewarned. I'll confirm that when I meet with Diana."

Elizabeth nodded, already planning her own strategy. "I want to see Peter," she said, getting to her feet.

Hughes stood up as well, shaking his head. "That's not going to happen tonight."

"Reese…"

"Elizabeth, he's fine. But the Secret Service has clamped down on access."

"I need to see him." _And damn, she hated how that sounded like begging…_

"I understand. But I don't see it happening tonight. Unless Bennett is found, and convinced to confess, I imagine Peter will be spending the night at the Hawthorne federal holding facility. I'll do what I can to get you in to see him tomorrow."

"Please…"

"Tomorrow, Elizabeth. And believe me, we'll get this all sorted out."

"Of course."

"Now, is there anything I can do for you tonight? Do you need anything?"

"Will Peter be all right?"

"As an agent, he'll go to the special administrative segregation area at Hawthorne. That's separate from the general population, where anyone he's arrested might be."

That wasn't one hundred percent reassuring, but at least it was something to hold onto. "Then I'll be fine."

Hughes studied her for a moment, and then he nodded. "I'll call you in the morning," he promised as he turned toward the door.

Elizabeth saw him out, locking the door behind him. She calmly set the alarm – _no need to leave it off, waiting for Peter to get home_ – and then she collapsed on the bottom stair, stifling a sob.

_Peter, arrested…_

But crying wasn't going to resolve anything, and maybe doing something was exactly what she needed. She paused just a moment to give Satchmo some attention; he must have sensed her worry, based on his body language. Then she got up and headed upstairs to get her laptop. Their lawyer's contact information was on a contact card in her e-mail.

She was _not worried_.

But she was mad.

* * *

Peter sighed and rested his head against his hands, rubbing his eyes. But only momentarily, because he was damned if he was going to show that kind of weakness.

He'd just gone toe to toe with the Secret Service, in what was undoubtedly just Round One. And he had taken a bit of a beating.

_Almost made him want to step back in the ring with Neal – at least the rules there were easier to understand._

Plus, it was easier to dodge the blows when you could actually see them coming.

Even as a veteran of countless interrogations – on the other side, of course – he wasn't quite sure what their purpose was. The agents had alternately questioned every detail of his account of what had happened on the fiftieth floor of the Empire State Building, and then switched to wondering why Peter had such a vendetta against Senator Pratt.

He was pretty sure that they hadn't believed that his only interest was truth, justice, and the American way.

_Maybe he needed a cape._

When the door opened to let the Secret Service out, he'd seen Neal being led down the hall toward the restrooms by other agents. They hadn't been allowed to speak, of course, but they had made brief eye contact, and in that moment, Peter got at least one answer.

Neal was playing with his interrogators.

In that split second as they locked eyes, Neal's sagging shoulders straightened, and he winked, a slight smile touching his lips. A brief, subtle nod between the two of them, and then Neal was gone.

It was reassuring anyway.

The door had closed again then, cutting him off from anything outside this room. And he was still here.

Oh, he was sure there were observers on the other side of the mirror, probably trying to decide how guilty his body language appeared.

_And he'd like to tell them that it wasn't guilt, but exhaustion, driving him right now. Not that they were apt to listen…_

For now, he'd just wait.

And when someone did come in again, maybe he'd demand his own restroom break.

* * *

"Elizabeth, I promise I'll call if I hear anything. Now are you sure you're all right… Yes, that was a good idea on the phone… Oh, don't worry, no one can track the call here… Right, call if you need anything. Good night."

Mozzie disconnected the call and then sat there, staring at the phone. Jones finally pulled him out of where he was, lost in thought.

"Is Elizabeth all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, she's fine. Hughes filled her in on the official version of events."

"Sounded like you left a few things out of the unofficial version."

Mozzie scoffed at that. "While I'm confident in the security of my phone, I can't say the same for her end. Though apparently Hughes did give her a burner to use, so that's something."

"Does she need anything else?"

"Answers." Mozzie turned to Sally. "Anything while I was on the phone?"

"I'm almost into the Secret Service database. We should know what they know soon."

"I shouldn't be hearing this," Jones muttered.

"You had the opportunity to leave," Mozzie shot back.

Sally cleared her throat and pointed to another set of monitors, bringing them back on task. "Some of the FBI reports are starting to show up in the system."

Jones leaned in to take a quick look. "What about the building security video?"

"Three shots so far of Bennett in the stairwell, but none below the fortieth floor yet. And none that clearly show a gun," Mozzie reported. "Traffic?"

Jones turned back to his work station, where he had been reviewing traffic tapes. "There was a car that looked like it could be June's that made an abrupt U-turn just shy of the Holland Tunnel. That was the first exit that NYPD was able to seal off."

"So he probably saw the flashing lights," Sally said.

"That's my guess," Jones agreed. "There was no video the way he turned, but since he was trying to get to Jersey, I checked the Lincoln and the GW Bridge next. There's a lot of traffic, but the search program only pinged on a handful of Jags, none of them the right one. I'm manually reviewing that first hour after he left Neal's, just in case the traffic was blocking the car." Jones sighed, tossing a pen on the desk in frustration. "Too bad there's no toll westbound, so everyone has to stop."

"If it was easy, the Feds could do this themselves," Mozzie remarked. He stretched his fingers, and leaned back in to the keyboard. "We'll find something."

* * *

Peter looked up as the door opened, almost relieved to see that it was the FBI coming back in. At least he more or less understood what they were trying to do.

He just wasn't sure that _Callaway_ understood.

Unfortunately, she was leading the others in, her faithful lackeys Watson and Chambers at her heels.

And she looked pissed.

"I hope you understand that this is a very serious situation," she said. When he made no reply, she continued. "It's not some sort of game."

"I never thought it was."

"Your CI apparently thinks it is."

_Ah, that explained it – she'd tried to question Neal. Being intimately familiar with classic Caffrey misdirection and deflection techniques, he could understand her mood now…_

_And he'd bet that Neal hadn't even needed to kick it into second gear._

"Maybe Neal is just frustrated, as I am, that we're being accused of something we didn't do," Peter suggested, very calmly.

"Are you saying now that you didn't remove Caffrey's tracking anklet?" Callaway challenged.

"Of course that's not what I'm saying. I've told you I did that, and explained why," Peter said, making a game effort to keep his temper in check. "As Neal's handler, it was well within my authority."

"Was it? We're getting the full agreement from the Marshals."

"Good."

It looked like Callaway was expecting him to say something else, but Peter just leaned back in his chair and met her stare.

She blinked first.

"I closed the Pratt case," she said, changing tactics. "But you reopened it without informing me."

"Frankly, I'm more interested in why the file was closed in the first place," Bancroft said as he re-entered the room with Hughes.

"There was no evidence," Callaway started.

"Oh, maybe not enough for a conviction," Bancroft agreed. "But there was plenty of circumstantial evidence to tie Pratt to Cole Edwards' money laundering scheme, as well as to the death of Dennis Flynn."

"Sir, I don't think…"

"Let's talk about what else there's evidence of, Agent Callaway," Hughes said, laying a file on the table in front of her. "This is your statement, is it not?"

"It is," she admitted, her voice tight.

"You relieved Agent Burke of his gun and badge in Pratt's office, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The same gun that ballistics has now confirmed to be the weapon that fired the bullet that killed Pratt, is that correct?"

"Yes."

Hughes was in full authority mode. "And how do you explain that, Agent Callaway?"

"Agent Watson…"

Bancroft slammed his hand on the table. "Who was in charge, you or Agent Watson?"

"I was," she admitted.

"Did you secure the weapon you seized, Agent Callaway?" Hughes asked. When she made no move to answer, he asked again. "It's a simple question. Did you secure the weapon?"

Silence filled the room until Bancroft finally spoke. "Let's try another question. Did you warn Pratt about the search?"

"Sir, I would never…"

"Be very careful how you answer that," Bancroft warned. He reached into his pocket, setting a micro recorder on the table. "We have the recording."

Callaway's eyes went wide, but she didn't say anything.

"Your entire operation was seriously flawed, Callaway," Bancroft continued. "You called a potential suspect and warned him of the search. You allowed him into the search area, and then left him unattended in that space. You confiscated a weapon and then failed to secure it – something that's FBI 101." Bancroft sighed and pointed to the door. "You're suspended, Agent Callaway. Leave your badge with the duty officer on your way out. We've already seized your weapon from the security desk – and _secured_ it."

Callaway got to her feet, straightened her jacket, and headed for the door.

"We'll notify you when you're needed for questioning," Bancroft called after her retreating form.

Hughes turned to Watson and Chambers. "Your roles in this will be examined. For now, you've both been assigned to Internal Bank Fraud. Agent Franklin is expecting you in the morning." He waved his hand, effectively dismissing the two junior agents.

Peter had watched all of the drama in silence. But, as the door closed again, he knew the focus had returned to him.

"Well, this is a fine mess, Peter," Hughes said, settling wearily onto the chair Callaway had vacated.

"It is," Peter agreed, equally as weary. "I don't suppose there's been any progress in finding Bennett?"

"Not yet," Bancroft replied. "We've elevated the BOLO to top priority with all of the law enforcement agencies."

Peter nodded, desperately wanting to ask more – to actually do something. But he knew that most likely wasn't going to happen. "Did you have a chance to talk to Elizabeth?"

Hughes nodded. "I did. She's fine – angry as all get out though."

"I can imagine," Peter replied.

"She's contacting your civil law lawyer to get a name for a defense attorney."

"Good. Wally's firm has some top-notch litigators."

"I suggested she might want someone with her at the house too," Hughes continued.

"They'll be searching the house," Peter guessed.

"Probably Caffrey's place as well," Hughes said, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

Peter knew they were still being recorded, so he took a moment to consider his words. "Since Neal hasn't done anything wrong, I highly doubt he'd be concerned."

_Besides, from the hints he'd gotten before Diana was asked to leave, Neal had contacted Mozzie, and June had also been aware of the day's events. One or both of them had undoubtedly sanitized the apartment by now…_

"He didn't appear to be when the Secret Service threatened him with a search," Bancroft admitted.

"Is he all right?" Peter asked.

"He's fine." Bancroft gave a short laugh. "Callaway took a shot at interrogating him after the Service agents left."

Peter managed not to smile. "I'm guessing she didn't get a confession out of him."

Hughes shook his head. "Hardly."

"Are you officially back with the Bureau, Reese?"

Bancroft was the one who answered. "I've asked Agent Hughes to come back as the interim Bureau Chief, at least until we get all of this sorted out. We need an experienced hand at the helm."

Peter did allow himself to smile at that news. "Good."

Hughes leaned across the table. "Peter, is there anything else you can tell us?"

Peter sighed and shook his head slowly. "I can't think of anything."

"And you really don't think Bennett had the evidence from this box?"

"I didn't see him with it," Peter confirmed. _And he really didn't know the details on how the others had planned to get it out of the building – plausible deniability_. "But, I don't know where he had been before I walked in."

"We've got agents scouring every inch of that building," Bancroft said. "It would certainly make things easier if we had some evidence to back up the claims of corruption."

"I'm sure it will show up," Peter said carefully. _He was pretty sure that someone – Mozzie – was already working with that evidence._

"Yes, well, right now we have nothing to back up your statement," Bancroft said. "And with a United States Senator dead, the Secret Service isn't about to let this case rest without some real answers."

"I understand," Peter said, afraid he knew what was coming next.

"You're going to be held at Hawthorne, at least until they can get a preliminary hearing scheduled," Bancroft continued. "I've personally talked to the night officer in charge over there. Given your position as an agent, and Caffrey's as a CI, you'll both be held in the protective segregation unit."

Peter nodded, trying to keep his breathing even. "Of course." _Prison had __not__ been in his plans for the day…_

"I'll contact the director of the facility in the morning," Hughes said. "I promised Elizabeth she'd be able to see you."

"I appreciate that."

"And we will get to the bottom of what happened, Peter," Bancroft assured him.

"I know you will," Peter replied, with all of the confidence he could muster.

_Which actually wasn't all that much at the moment…_


	5. Cellies

The door clanged shut behind him, and despite his best intentions, Peter couldn't help but flinch.

_This was a mistake… a huge mistake… it would all get sorted out…_

He took a deep breath, and then a step forward. He knew Neal was right behind him, had felt the younger man's physical presence at his shoulder, so this gave both of them a little bit of breathing room.

_A __very__ little…_

Peter sucked in another deep breath, willing the voice in his head to be quiet. There wasn't room for a third presence in the small cell.

Neal finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "So, did you ever imagine we'd wind up as cellies?"

"Not like this," Peter admitted, and the simple question helped ease some of his tension. "Maybe for one of the crazy schemes you or Mozzie cooks up, and I get dragged into."

"Well…"

"This was not one of those," Peter said firmly.

"Right."

"And if it was going to be for killing someone, I thought it might be Mozzie. I did tell him I was going to strangle him someday."

"Well, that day hasn't come yet. And you're probably not the first to have that plan."

"Good. That'll come in handy for my defense when the day does come." Peter took another step, studying the narrow bunks set against one wall. "I'm opting for bottom," he said, setting his collection of toiletries and bedding – and an extra set of neon-glow orange clothing – on the lower bunk. "I hope you don't mind top."

"Fine with me," Neal replied, tossing his own supplies to the upper bunk before hoisting himself up. "But Peter?"

Peter had leaned in, fitting the bottom sheet over the thin pad that passed for a mattress. "Yeah?"

"Just in case things go really wrong, and you do wind up in prison, you might want to be careful using words like top and bottom."

It took just a moment for that to sink in, and Peter found himself staring upwards, as if he could see through the base of the bunk. "Is this where we're required to have prison sex?"

Even without being able to see his partner, Peter could hear the smile in Neal's reply – a welcome touch of levity under the circumstances. "Well, it's more of a guideline than a rule. We can skip it, if you want."

"I think I'd probably prefer that. I'm pretty sure El would."

"True, and I don't need to give her any more reason to want to kill me," Neal replied, now with no trace of humor.

"She doesn't want to kill you."

"Right."

"Neal, after the accident, she was scared."

"Sure."

"She understands that it was wrong to ask you to lie to me."

"Uh huh."

"El knows it's better when we work together, not separately."

"As is obvious from our current accommodations."

Peter had to concede that Neal had a point there. "This is only temporary," he said, as confidently as he could. He finished getting the sheet positioned and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Neal's feet appeared over the edge of the bunk, and then he dropped back to the floor. "Yeah, you'll be out of here in no time."

"We both will." Neal just shrugged, looking anything but convinced, so Peter continued. "What? Taking the anklet off was on me. So unless you committed some crime spree on your way home…"

"Which I did not."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem. And you didn't assault Pratt."

Neal sighed, leaning back against the narrow table built into the wall across from the bunks. "No, but the thing is, you have the whole 'innocent until proven guilty' thing going for you. For me, it's more guilty until proven innocent."

"You'll get a hearing."

"Sure, but I'm already convicted. All they have to do is say I violated the terms of my probation. Then I wait it out here or back at Sing Sing."

"One thing at a time," Peter advised. "First, we just need them to find your fa… Bennett. He can clear both of us."

"If he will," Neal said sadly.

"He will," Peter insisted.

Instead of arguing, Neal just shrugged and changed topics. "Well, if worst comes to worst, maybe Mozzie can engineer a daring prison breakout."

Peter decided to play along; nothing to lose, really, at this point. "Is this where we begin our new careers as bank robbers?"

"The infamous Caffrey and Burke."

"Infamous, probably, but it was going to be Burke and Caffrey."

Neal just shrugged that off. "We'd be unstoppable."

"The stuff of legends," Peter said. "But I'm not quite sure I'm ready to turn to a life of crime."

Neal snapped his fingers, smiling. "We could be the A-Team!"

"The A-Team?"

"Sure, instead of committing crimes, we'd go around helping victims of crime."

"And how would that work? As I recall, there was a lot of shooting, and you don't like guns."

"Well, we could be more like the White Collar A-Team – more bonds and jewelry than machine guns." Neal's voice dropped a good octave as he continued. "If you've been the victim of a white collar crime, if no one else can help you, and if you can find them, maybe you… can hire…"

"The A-Team," Peter finished with him. "That's something to aspire to."

"Peter, it would be perfect. You'd make a great Hannibal."

"I do like it when a plan comes together," Peter admitted. "Of course, you'd be Face."

Neal's shoulders straightened and he turned his head in profile. "Brilliant, dashing, debonair…"

"Don't forget modest," Peter grumbled.

Neal's grin was almost blinding in the small space. "That goes without saying."

"Obviously," Peter replied, rolling his eyes. "I guess there's no doubt about the role of Murdoch. Mozzie has the crazy part down pat."

"But in a good way," Neal insisted. "He can be very useful in a tight spot. Plus, he really can fly a plane."

"And is his pilot's license in his real name?" Neal just gave that question a smile and a small shrug, so Peter sighed and moved on. "All right, who's B.A. on this team?"

It took just a moment before Neal grinned and snapped his fingers. "Diana."

"Diana!"

"Sure, she has the attitude."

"That's true," Peter conceded. "And she does like jewelry."

"Perfect. We've got our team."

"It all sounds thrilling, but I'd kind of miss El if I went on the run."

"She can be our outside contact."

"Oh, like Amy in the show."

Neal nodded. "Or Tawnia later on. We'll set it up so Elizabeth's event business goes national. She can travel around, helping organize events, scouting venues."

"And setting up covert meetings."

"Exactly. And Jones can be our inside contact."

"Let us know when the chase is getting too close."

"And help work to eventually clear your name."

"_Our_ names, Neal."

"A little late for me, I think."

"Well, after you rescue a few wealthy damsels from their white collar tormentors, maybe they'll help secure you a pardon."

"Now that's something to look forward to!"

Peter actually let himself laugh at that. "You do like to think big."

Neal shrugged that off. "Might as well."

"Is that how you survived prison before?" Peter asked, very serious now.

Neal's demeanor changed as well. "That was part of it. Dreams, plans. But you're not going to be locked up long enough to need that, Peter."

A guard appeared at the door, tapping the bars. "Five minutes to get settled," he warned. "Then lights out."

Footsteps waned as the man continued down the hall, and then the door into the section clanged. "I promised El dinner," Peter said softly. "Not… this."

"You'll be taking her to dinner soon enough, Peter."

"I hope so."

"I know so."

They fell silent for a moment, and other sounds became clear. Peter could hear other men snoring, mumbling, tossing and turning. He must have looked unsettled, judging by Neal's next question.

"You know I've got your back, right?"

Peter looked up, meeting his partner's eyes. "Yeah, I know. And I've got yours."

Neal held the eye contact for a long moment and then nodded. "I know."

"I hope you don't snore."

"Hey, I heard you were the one who talks in his sleep!"

Peter sucked in a deep breath, gesturing around him. "Not sure how well I'll sleep with all of this going on anyway."

"Well, try to at least get some rest," Neal advised. "You're going to need it."

Peter watched as Neal kicked off his shoes, grabbed his prison-issue toothbrush from his bunk, and stepped up next to the small sink.

_It seemed like such a normal thing to do, in a very AB-normal situation._

"Are you worried?" Peter asked, digging out his own toothbrush.

Neal looked up from putting toothpaste on the brush and smiled – the small, genuine type of smile. "Not about tonight."

"Yeah, me neither," Peter responded.

_And fortunately, Neal didn't call him on the lie…_

* * *

_The night has a thousand eyes…_

Even though this particular bar had honkytonk tunes cranked up to an impossible level of loudness, it seemed like all he could hear were the words of the Bobby Vee song in his head.

Given where he was – literally and figuratively – it wasn't just paranoia leading him to wonder about eyes in the night.

James leaned back against the wall, in the farthest, darkest corner of the bar and sipped his beer, looking around. A couple of times tonight it had seemed like someone might have been paying a little too much attention to him, studying his face a little too carefully.

So far, nothing had come of it – no SWAT vehicles skidding to a halt outside, here or the places he'd been earlier. No parade of FBI agents coming through the door.

He just wasn't sure how long he could count on things staying like that.

Oh, he'd become pretty good at living under the radar, staying in the shadows. That's what one had to do when you were a convicted cop killer who also happened to have turned state's evidence against a major mob family. At least, that's what he'd had to do since leaving his witness protection identity behind in Montana and reclaiming his life as James Bennett.

He hadn't lied to Neal about everything. He really had hoped that, once he served his reduced sentence, he would have been reunited with his family. But Margaret had foiled that idea by filing for divorce; she'd never even responded to the letters he'd sent through the Marshals service. Not that he could totally blame her, of course; she hadn't signed up for the path his life had taken. And he really did know that he'd been the one in charge of making all of the decisions that had turned him from a good cop – _Kathryn Hill's partner_ – into something he had never dreamed of being. He was the one who had taken the step over that final line that he couldn't come back from.

But he wasn't willing to take all of the blame. His misdeeds had been encouraged and supported by Daniel Shea, the man he'd shot, and by Terrence Pratt, the captain who had a closer working relationship with the Flynns than with his own officers. And he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – forget that.

Now, in the dark of night, after a few beers to calm himself, he could see how he could have handled things better, then and now. Then, he should have waited for a big score and then packed up Margaret and little Neal and left town. It was easier in those days, to just pick up and start over. Computers hadn't taken over the world quite yet, monitoring everything. Plus, his work on the shadier side had introduced him to some helpful contacts.

And now…

Well, now he'd change a number of things about the way the day had gone. Knowing they had been discovered, he should have been the one to suggest that Mozzie take the evidence up to the top floor after all; there was no longer time for his original plan, which had been to sort out certain pieces of evidence on the way up. If he had simply headed out of the building, he would have avoided Pratt's lackey, and he could have been back at the house on Riverside Drive ahead of anyone else.

The ballistics report would have been gone well before Neal got home.

But hindsight and 'should have' didn't solve his current predicament. He'd known he was in trouble when he saw the checkpoint at the Holland Tunnel entrance. And the streets had suddenly seemed to come alive with law enforcement vehicles as he had tried to move north toward another exit from the island.

_If only he hadn't tried to retrieve that damn ballistics report. He hadn't even known for sure that it would be in the box. If he'd been convincing enough, sold Kathryn on the idea that he was being framed, maybe she wouldn't have even looked at the official evidence. But she had been a damn good cop, so of course she had found it…_

And really, it was his weak, sentimental side that had done him in. He'd wanted to leave Neal – the son he'd never thought he would see again – with the illusion that his father had been a tormented, but basically righteous, man. Not a murderer, then…

Or now.

_Would the self-defense assertion really work, even with Burke to back it up? He just couldn't take the risk._

So now, here he was, skulking in the darkest corners of Manhattan's underbelly. He was familiar with the type of people found here, even if he didn't know New York as well as, say, Washington, DC. He'd been checking out the types of places where people gathered to complete transactions that were best not seen in the light of day.

The stolen Jaguar was too high profile, so he'd already stashed it in the most out of the way place he could find. _Too bad, it was a sweet ride…_ And when one went off the beaten path, it wasn't that hard to find a place to stay – one with a desk clerk who wouldn't ask for ID when presented with a handful of cash. As long as he didn't do anything to draw attention to himself, it would be a safe place to hole up the next day. He'd already purchased hair dye and some other items to change his appearance, so he'd work on that. And then tomorrow night he'd come back, try to make contact with people who could help him leave the city undetected. He was pretty sure he'd seen a few tonight.

The wild card in his plans, though, was Neal.

_Who would have thought his kid would side with the Fed? He'd underestimated that bond._

Was Neal already out looking for him, using the prodigious skills that he offered now to the FBI? Quite possible. Or maybe the strange little guy. Mozzie had never really shared much detail with him, but James had the distinct impression the man was well-wired when it came to the streets of New York.

_Thus the feeling that eyes might be on him…_

In a way, it seemed like all the more reason to move quickly. But what was it Neal had said when they were talking about going after the evidence box, just a couple of days ago? _Take their time and do it right._

Between law enforcement, and the people his son could probably send to look for him, he realistically only had one chance to get this right and make it away from the city. New ID would help. And then he'd head south. He still had Sam Phelps' houseboat, registered now under a different name and moored off a small Key midway down the Florida chain. He'd be mobile and anonymous, drifting among the islands.

He just needed to get there.

* * *

Sara watched as the driver loaded her luggage into the trunk – _no, the __boot_– and then slid into the back seat of the boxy black cab. She gave the driver the address of the Millennium Hotel and then leaned back, eyes closed.

She'd barely cleared through Immigration when her cell phone had chirped. _Could Mozzie really have known when she'd be out of there and able to take a call? Somehow, she wouldn't put it past him…_

His news had been, to put it mildly, alarming. A dead Senator? Peter and Neal under arrest? Neal's father on the run?

A year ago she would have chalked it all up to bad fiction.

She'd assured Mozzie that of course she'd back up the proposal story. After all, there were photos to prove that it happened.

_And a lingering pang in her heart when she considered how__real__ it had seemed. How much she had wanted it to be real in some ways; how much it seemed that Neal might have wanted it to be real too._

_Another time, another place…_

So, she'd get checked in at the hotel. But then, instead of the long bath, and a nap to stave off jet lag, she was going ring shopping. Cubic zirconium should do, as long as it was a close match to the ring that might show up in the photos.

Just in case someone came knocking on her door, instead of calling.

And speaking of calls, she had a couple to make.

_She should have known it wouldn't be easy to leave Neal Caffrey behind…_


	6. Morning

Jones drained the last of his coffee and stood up, stretching. He was having trouble seeing straight, what with spending hours staring at traffic on the monitors.

"Look, I'm going to need to get out of here," he said. "I've got to meet Diana and Hughes in an hour. And then I'll be expected at work, to keep up appearances."

Mozzie nodded, barely looking up from his own work. "There's an extra copy of the evidence documents by the door," he said, gesturing that way. "When you leave, keep to the right at each turn until you get to the blue door. Go up the stairs one level and you'll find an exit to the outside. There's a subway stop for the 'E' line a block to your left."

Jones looked toward the door, and then back. "You're not blindfolding me?"

"As painful as it may be to admit this, our interests at the moment are undeniably intertwined," Mozzie replied, looking as though it really was painful to say the words. "Giving up this location to your government employers is not doing Peter, or Neal, any favors."

"Besides, I have a warning system," Sally added, rather nonchalantly. "Anyone tries to get in here, whatever we've found will be destroyed before they have a chance to get their hands on it."

Mozzie beamed at her, looking very proud, before turning back to Jones. "Maybe call first before you return," he suggested.

"Right. And you'll let me know if you find anything big."

Mozzie nodded. "As I said, our interests coincide on this."

Jones nodded and turned toward the door, picking up the portfolio there. "I'll let you know if I find anything that can help." He paused, looking at the sweeping array of monitors. "Of course, you'll probably know anything official before me."

"Probably," Sally called out, not looking up from her work.

Jones just shook his head and let himself out of the door. He heard the electronic locks re-engage behind him as he turned right, right again, and right yet again.

Hopefully he really would find a blue door, and not just a wormhole dragging him further into Wonderland.

* * *

Dawn was still in the making, the horizon just starting to show faint signs of shaking off the darkness of the night. The three agents sat huddled in a back booth in a twenty-four hour diner, papers spread out in front of them, coffee cups interspersed among them.

Hughes finally pushed some of the pages aside, sighing. "This is… incredible," he said, obviously not satisfied with the word, but unable to come up with anything else to describe what they were seeing.

Diana nodded. "If even half of this can be proved…"

Hughes sighed again, pursing his lips. "I need to ask this," he began slowly. "How sure are you about the authenticity? You know the question is going to come up the minute we make any investigation official, given Caffrey's skills."

"We know when the box was found," Jones said.

"And when we found him at his apartment," Diana added. "He certainly didn't have time to forge anything in between."

"And no reason for him to have forged anything ahead of time?" Hughes prompted.

"Neal believed whatever was in that box would absolve his father, at least of the murder charge," Diana replied.

Jones held up the damning ballistics report. "No way he would have put this in there."

"That's a good argument," Hughes admitted. "Don't get me wrong – I don't personally believe Caffrey forged any of this."

"But the Secret Service may take some convincing," Diana guessed.

"And the best way to convince them is to find proof to back some of this up," Hughes said. "But a lot of this is decades old."

"Well, we do have some help on that," Jones offered.

Hughes considered that a moment. "You think Caffrey's friend can come up with something?"

Diana laughed. "Oh, believe me, if there's a conspiracy theory to be investigated, Mozzie is the one to do it."

"Just remind him it needs to be clear, _legal_ proof," Hughes warned.

"Neal's his best friend," Diana said, serious now.

"And the little guy even cares about Peter, in his own way," Jones added, sounding a bit amused by the idea.

"Well, let's take a look officially, too – but quietly," Hughes advised. "We still don't know how far the Pratt connection extends."

"Yes, sir," Jones and Diana replied, in nearly perfect unison.

Hughes reached for his wallet. "All right, let's get this packed up. I'm getting way too old to exist on a quick shower and a change of clothes, but I guess that's what it'll be for today." He tossed some money down on a newly-cleared spot on the table and got to his feet. "I'll see you at the office in two hours."

* * *

The buzzer sounded, and Peter groaned.

After spending most of the night, it seemed, tossing and turning, and staring at the bottom of Neal's bunk, the wake-up call was an unwelcome intrusion. And somehow, he didn't expect that this one came with a snooze button.

Above, he could hear Neal stirring, and a moment later orange-clad legs appeared over the side, followed by the rest of his partner as he dropped to the floor. With a groan, Peter sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Get any sleep?" Neal asked.

"A little, I guess." Peter yawned, then shrugged. "Obviously not enough. You?"

"Probably more than you. This place isn't quite as foreign to me." Neal paused, gesturing at the stainless steel toilet. "Ummmm…"

"Right. What's the protocol?"

"Fortunately, I mostly had a cell to myself. But in two-man cells, generally at least look away. The illusion of privacy."

"I can do that." Peter pulled his feet up onto the bunk again and turned to face the door. He waited until he heard the toilet flush before swiveling back. By then, Neal was brushing his teeth. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Neal asked, around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Make even the orange look good."

That got a quick laugh from Neal, and then he spit out the paste and rinsed his mouth out. "Well, I didn't sleep in the uniform," he said. "But really, no one looks good in Day-Glo orange."

Peter looked down at his own orange garb, quite crumpled because he _had _slept – or tried to sleep – in it. "Guess I didn't think about the wrinkles," he remarked, getting to his feet as Neal stepped aside. _It was almost like a dance, how one man had to spin away so the other could move in the small space._

"I seriously doubt that Elizabeth, or your lawyer, will mind."

"Probably true." Neal had put his toothbrush away and was studiously watching the corridor outside the door, so Peter took advantage of the 'privacy' to use the toilet. "Working on an escape plan?" he asked when he had finished.

"Even I would need something more than a bent safety pin to pick that lock," Neal replied, pointing toward the door.

"Something that even stumps the great Neal Caffrey?"

"Hey, I didn't say it was impossible," Neal insisted. "Just… challenging."

Before Peter could reply, a guard appeared at the door, holding two covered trays. Without saying anything he passed them one at a time through the slot in the door to Neal, who put them on the narrow table. Another guard followed, with a cart, and she passed two cups of what more or less smelled like coffee into the cell.

"Breakfast is served," Neal said, setting the cups down with a flourish.

The cell was narrow enough that Peter found he could sit on the bunk and reach over, leaving the single stool for Neal. He reached across and lifted one of the covers – unveiling a most unappetizing assortment of lumpy oatmeal, something that might turn out to be applesauce, a small carton of milk, what was probably some type of margarine spread, and two pieces of slightly burned toast. _At least the burned parts added a little bit of color to the tray…_

"Not sure I'm really hungry," Peter muttered.

"It's kind of like trying to sleep," Neal replied. "You need to keep your energy up."

"Assuming I can keep any of this _down_," Peter muttered, picking up the plastic Spork provided. "Didn't know they even still made these."

"Saves money from having to provide both a fork and a spoon," Neal suggested. "And the plastic makes it harder to use as a weapon."

Peter held the implement up, studying the small tines. "I guess it would be hard to do a lot of damage if I stabbed you with this."

"Mmmmm… I'd much prefer if we didn't actually test that theory."

"I'll try to control my stabbing urges."

"I appreciate that." Neal scooped up some oatmeal on his own Spork, eying it dubiously. "Anyway, even the plastic can cause some damage if it's filed down. I don't know if Hawthorne allows keeping them in cells or not."

"Did Sing Sing?"

Neal nodded, dropping the oatmeal back on the tray and replacing it with applesauce on his Spork. "As you might be able to guess, prison food is not always the most appetizing. A lot of guys made most of their meals out of things they got from the commissary, and they'd eat in their cells."

"I think I can understand that." Peter took a chance on some of the oatmeal, grimacing as he swallowed. "I didn't think it was possible for oatmeal to be that bad."

"You'd be surprised," Neal replied, trying the applesauce. It only warranted a slight grimace, so Peter tried that next.

"That's at least edible."

Neal nodded. "I've had worse."

Peter finished the applesauce, and contemplated the toast. "So this is what I have to look forward to."

"Not for long."

"That's best case scenario."

"No reason to think it'll be otherwise."

Peter decided not to argue – especially since he was really, _really_ hoping Neal was right. Still, he needed to know. "Still, this is segregation."

"This is _administrative_ _protection_," Neal clarified.

"So it would be different in prison."

Neal shrugged. "It's probably a little different each place. Here, it's people who might run into issues with general population."

"Like FBI agents and consultants."

"Exactly."

"And there?"

Neal's hesitation was brief, but noticeable. "Mostly guys who don't play well with others."

"Neal…"

"This really isn't so bad," Neal said, cutting him off. "You get a great cellmate like me. You can see through the door – there's even a window to the outside just across the corridor. That's important…"

Neal's voice trailed off, and Peter let the silence hang for a moment. "Not like Sing Sing?" he finally suggested, gently.

Neal shook his head. "Not even close," he whispered. He looked away – toward that window, Peter noticed – before continuing. "All one-man cells, definitely no outside windows."

"How long?"

"Two weeks." Neal sucked in a deep breath, then tried for a small smile. "For escape."

That caught Peter off guard. "I didn't know."

Neal shrugged that off, staring at the window again. "Why would you? It was your job to put me there, not to babysit me after."

"Still…"

"That night, after you found me, they put me back in my old cell. I was still there when you came for our meeting. Then the next day I had my hearing."

"That's when you wound up in solitary."

Neal nodded, around another deep breath. "It could have been worse. They actually gave me two months. But I had a clean disciplinary record."

"Except for the escape," Peter noted, trying to keep his tone light. He'd rarely seen Neal so tense, and maybe he should have just dropped the questions.

_But he wanted to know…_

"Except for the escape, yeah," Neal agreed, and the smile he managed seemed to come just a little easier. "I didn't contest the charges, and I hadn't hurt anyone."

"They stayed all but two weeks," Peter guessed.

Neal nodded, the subtle signs of tension in his body reappearing. "That was a Friday," he said softly. "There are no rec periods or showers on weekends. It was Monday afternoon before I saw another human being. Well, other than a hand pushing a food tray through the slot, or a face at the observation window doing a check. But not a whole person. Even then, no human contact, unless you were being cuffed. No one to talk to…" He paused, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. "Longest two weeks of my life," he said, trying for a small smile; the effort failed. "Felt like the whole four years," he finished, very softly.

Peter wasn't even sure what to say to that, but he was saved by a guard who appeared at the door, key in hand. "Shower time, if you want."

Neal nodded immediately. "Definitely," he said, moving to gather his things.

Peter busied himself with gathering his own toiletries and change of clothing. The guard had unlocked the door, and Neal was already out in the corridor, so Peter hurried to join them. A second guard joined the procession, one in front, one behind.

They moved down the hallway, around a couple of corners, and then the guard in front pointed into a room off to one side. It was actually similar to some of the locker rooms he'd seen at gyms, Peter decided – except that the lockers here had no doors, just a couple of shelves and a hook to hold the few belongings they'd brought.

Neal stripped down quickly, and moved into the shower area while Peter found himself still contemplating the logistics of the situation. Not knowing how much time they'd really have, however, he finally made himself move, stripping off the horrible orange clothing. He grabbed a towel and headed for the water.

_But he couldn't get the image Neal had painted of solitary confinement out of his mind… nor could he shake the dread of facing that himself…_


	7. Legal Eagles

Satchmo provided the first warning, lurching to his feet with a low growl. Elizabeth felt the movement under her hand, and it partially roused her from her slumber on the couch.

The knock on the door brought her to complete wakefulness.

She hadn't even meant to fall asleep, as the open laptop on the coffee table attested. She'd been researching defense attorney ratings.

She opened the inner door, then stopped with her hand on the knob of the outer portal. A quick glance out the side window showed a man she didn't recognize.

_Given yesterday's events, caution was probably a good route to take._

"Who is it?"

"Mrs. Burke? My name is Russell Mansur. Wally Sherman asked me to come."

Elizabeth ran her hands through her hair, hoping that got rid of the worst of the just-woke-up look, and then she opened the door, getting her first real look at Russell Mansur. A shock of blond hair was the defining feature that caught her eye, the bangs swept to one side over wire-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that magnified his eyes. He wasn't tall, probably a few inches short of six feet, but his tailored black pinstriped suit made him seem taller. He clutched a soft-sided briefcase under his left arm, his right hand extended in greeting.

_And somehow, as she shook hands, she managed to __not__ blurt out the question uppermost on her mind – namely, if he had really graduated from __high school__ yet, much less law school. Oh, he looked young…_

"Come in, Mr. Mansur," she managed to say, straightening her sweatshirt as she stepped aside. At least she was decently, even if not stylishly, dressed.

"Please, call me Russell," he said as he stepped inside, pausing to hold his hand out to Satchmo. She watched as the lab sniffed, and apparently decided the new human was all right before leaning in for an ear scratch.

_Dogs were supposed to be good judges of character, right?_

"Russell," she acknowledged, pointing toward the table. "I was just going to make some coffee. Would you like some? Or I have tea."

"Coffee would be just fine, Mrs. Burke. Thank you."

"Please, it's Elizabeth." She walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet to get the coffee out. She set the French press on the counter, started the water heating, and turned back.

Russell was standing near the table, and when he saw her move toward him, he held out a large envelope. "This was on your front steps when I got here."

Elizabeth took the envelope – addressed to _Mrs. Suit._

"It didn't have your name on it," Russell was saying. "I can get someone to check the contents if you don't recognize the writing."

"Oh, I know who it's from." Her hand was shaking as she undid the clasp and opened the flap. _Please let it be that Mozzie had found something to help Peter…_

She laid several sheets of paper on the table, then tipped the envelope up to let a thumb drive drop out onto the surface.

Russell had picked up the first page, and he turned it toward her now. "Do you know this man?"

Puzzlement turned into an angry glare as she looked. "That's James Bennett. He's the one who actually shot Terrence Pratt."

The attorney laid out a few other photos. "These all appear to be inside a building. And this one shows him with a gun."

"That's good, right?"

"It might be, if we knew how these photos were obtained. Of course, I haven't seen the official report…" His voice trailed off and he held up another sheet. "This is the summary of the US Attorney's charge sheet. The note says the full file is on the thumb drive."

"Thank you, Mozzie," Elizabeth whispered.

Russell looked up. "Excuse me?"

_Probably not a good idea to drop Mozzie's name… yet._ "Oh, I'll just check on the coffee," she covered.

_And there was a slight spring to her step as she went into the kitchen – the first glimmer of hope in this nightmare. _

* * *

Peter waited – impatiently – for the guard to search him and then let him into the visitation room. He was hoping it would be El…

_Definitely wasn't expecting the blond-haired college kid._

He rubbed his wrists, wondering how much of the irritation was actually from the handcuffs that had just been removed, and how much was just from the _idea_ of the cuffs.

The kid stood up, holding out his hand. "Agent Burke, I'm Russell Mansur. Wally Sherman asked me to look into your case."

Peter shook hands, almost preternaturally happy to have been promoted back to 'agent' – at least for the time being. "I've known Wally for a long time," he said, taking a seat at the table. "If he recommends you…"

The kid smiled… _and damn if it didn't remind him of Neal._ "I know I look young, but I find it's actually an advantage."

"People underestimate you?"

"All the time."

"I'll try not to make that mistake," Peter promised. "So, where do we stand?"

"Well, you seem to have some anonymous help," Russell started, laying out some items from his briefcase. "These were in an envelope dropped off on your front steps this morning."

Peter looked at the photos, and he could feel his spirits rising – even if just a little. "James Bennett. He's the one who actually shot Pratt."

"That's what I understand." Russell set another photo out. "He has a gun in this one."

"Looks like the weapon I saw in Pratt's hand when I first came on the scene."

"That'll be helpful. Of course, we still need to verify the legitimacy of the photos. There was no name on the envelope these came in. Do you know who might have sent them?"

"Oh, I have some idea," Peter replied. And he couldn't help but recall Neal's defense of Mozzie, _he can be very useful in a tight spot_…

_And yes, yes he could._

"There was a flash drive as well," Russell continued. "It included the US Attorney's charge sheet – which hasn't even been filed yet."

"I've been in custody since yesterday afternoon," Peter said. "I have no personal knowledge of how that was obtained." _And he thought Neal would be proud of that non-answer…_

"Well, I also found information on the security cameras these images came from," Russell said, apparently willing to move on – at least for the time being. "I have investigators from my office checking that out."

"What are we looking at as far as a timeline?"

"I'm meeting with someone from the prosecutor's office in about an hour, so I'll have a better idea after that. But with a dead Senator, there's going to be some pressure to move things along quickly and show progress."

"Hopefully not so quickly that justice gets trampled," Peter replied.

"Oh, I won't let that happen. But I would like to get a preliminary hearing as quickly as possible. That way we get a look at what the other side has prepared, and we can argue for bail."

"Do you think there's a chance for that in a murder case?"

Russell tapped the photos on the table. "A little more evidence like this cast some doubt on the charges and I think there's a good shot. Of course, finding James Bennett would be the best option."

_Undoubtedly being worked on… by the FBI __and__ by others…_ "I'm afraid I don't have any information that would help locate him."

"Do you think Mr. Caffrey might?"

Peter shook his head emphatically. "No, if Neal had any idea on how to find Bennett, he would have told me."

"Bennett is his father…"

"A father he hadn't seen for thirty years," Peter pointed out. "And a man who's now leaving Neal to take the blame for an alleged assault that Bennett could clear him of."

"I would like to talk to Mr. Caffrey, if you think he would agree."

"I'll ask him."

"He would need to understand that I am _your_ attorney, not his," Russell warned. "The conversation would not be privileged."

"I'm sure Neal would understand that just fine."

"Do you know if he has an attorney of his own?"

Peter smiled. "Oh, I'm pretty sure he has that covered…"

* * *

Neal waited until the door was closed behind him before moving toward the table, a slight smile on his face. "Good to see you, Moz."

Mozzie just scowled. "You have needed an attorney way too often since making your deal with the devil to work for the Suits."

"Keeps your skills sharp." Neal sighed and dropped down onto a chair. "What do you know?"

"Sally and I have found video proof of James, with a gun, trying to leave the building in the moments after Pratt was killed."

"That's a good start."

"Copies were dropped off for Mrs. Suit this morning."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Last night. She said she was meeting with a lawyer for Peter this morning."

Neal nodded. "He got called for an attorney meeting a little while ago."

"Ah, so you've seen him."

That got a grin from Neal. "Oh, yes. We're cellies, for now."

Mozzie sighed and shook his head. "We are judged by the company we keep," he muttered.

"Well, it gives me a chance to keep an eye on him. This isn't exactly familiar turf for Peter."

"We'll continue our efforts to uncover evidence."

"Does the FBI know about the photos?"

"I've requested a meeting with Suit Jones after this."

"I appreciate you working with the FBI on this, Moz."

"He was… helpful, last night," Mozzie admitted.

"That's quite an admission, Moz."

Mozzie pulled a gadget out of his briefcase and set it on the table. "There's no evidence that I ever said it."

Neal picked the small box up, turning it over in his hands. "White noise? Moz, they can't record attorney-client meetings."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to believe that agents of the black hole government will actually follow the rules?"

"Well, you've taken precautions," Neal said noncommittally, sliding the box back. "Any leads on James?"

"We know he turned back from the Holland Tunnel, and so far there's been no sign of June's car leaving Manhattan by any other route."

"But that still leaves subway, bus, train."

"Sometimes New York's extensive public transportation system can be more of a curse than a blessing."

"It would leave him without transportation on the other end of wherever he was going though," Neal pointed out. "So it's possible he's still in Manhattan."

Mozzie nodded. "Entirely possible. There were a couple of rumored sightings overnight, but nothing that could be confirmed. I have everyone looking, and a sizeable reward out there for finding him in one piece."

"He didn't really spend that much time in New York. That may help."

"True, he'll have a harder time finding resources to help him get out of the city."

"And most of those resources will have heard about the reward," Neal added.

"Absolutely. Neal, we'll find him."

Neal nodded and sighed, resting his head against his hands. "I know. I just don't understand why he ran in the first place." He looked up again, offering his friend a sad smile. "I think you were right. Sometimes we're better off with just the fantasy, instead of finding out the truth."

"But if he had turned out to be the man he said he was…"

"No sense dealing with 'if' here," Neal replied. "Something made you not believe him though, otherwise you wouldn't have pulled the switch on the documents at the Empire State Building. What did you see that I missed?"

Mozzie shook his head slowly. "Neal, you know I'm generally distrustful of most everyone and everything. There was no one thing. It was a feeling."

"Well, it's a good thing you acted on it. Otherwise, Pratt would have gotten his hands on all the documents. Any progress on those?"

"Sally is running some queries, looking for external evidence. And I have hard copy documents to search."

"I remember."

"I'll visit the first storage locker after I meet with Suit Jones."

Neal opened his mouth to ask just how many lockers there were… but then he thought better of it. _Some things it might really be better not to know._ "Have they filed any charges against me yet?"

Mozzie shook his head. "There still seems to be some head-scratching going on over that. There's some noise coming from the Marshals over the anklet."

"Peter removed it, which he was entitled to do. And it's not like I splurged on a crime spree, or even went anywhere other than home. I'm not worried about that part."

"I tend to agree. As your attorney, I'll continue to monitor, but I don't expect anything other than noise to come of it."

"Pratt accused me of assault though."

"That is the bigger problem," Mozzie agreed. "Of course, the death of the complaining witness does create a complication."

"But as a convicted felon, they can use that 'complication' to complicate my life quite a bit."

"Unfortunately true. Neal, I was there, I know you didn't touch Pratt. But since coming back from Cape Verde, I haven't had a chance to set up an identity that would stand up to the kind of scrutiny this case is likely to bring in order to testify."

"I understand, Moz. What about the bodyguard?"

"If he's actually been questioned, it hasn't been officially filed yet."

"No hurry on that, I guess. All they have to do is revoke my probation and they can hold me for the next year and a half."

"If you think I'm going to allow _that_ to happen, you're obviously not thinking clearly," Mozzie replied.

"My apologies. I'll trust my attorney."

"I may have some ideas on how to deal with the bodyguard."

"I hope they don't involve making him disappear."

Mozzie's answering smile was not entirely reassuring. "Not at all."

Neal sighed. "Do I want to know any more about it?"

"Probably better if you don't."

"Then I leave myself in my attorney's capable hands."

"About that. I'm going to contact Nasty about getting someone to represent you, should this actually come to a court hearing."

"Because your ID might not stand up," Neal supplied. "Make sure you protect yourself, Moz."

"Always. Don't worry about me."

"I'll try. And make sure you work on the evidence for Peter first."

"Neal…"

"Moz, murder trumps anything I might be facing."

"Fine."

"I appreciate it, Moz."

"Now, what else do you need, Neal?"

"Well, I might be here a while. I could use a commissary account. And maybe you could bring me a few things…"


	8. Visitors

It came as a bit of a surprise to get notified that he had another visitor already that morning. He'd barely gotten back to the cell from his attorney consultation and now he was being led back down the hallway.

Neal hadn't been there when he got back, and Peter wondered what that meant. The guard escorting him now had claimed ignorance of his partner's whereabouts, and it had seemed sincere. And he'd probably seen at least a dozen different guards in the unit already today, so it made sense that only those assigned to certain escort duties would have the details.

Hopefully Neal was getting his own legal advice. Peter still had his doubts about the legitimacy of Mozzie's claimed law degree – though he'd never actually gotten around to looking to see if the University of Phoenix even offered such a thing.

Maybe it was something else he hadn't really wanted to know.

They bypassed the corridor he'd been in before, the one leading to the consultation rooms. Then they reached another locked door, and beyond Peter could see tables and chairs, orange-clad inmates mingled with others in civilian garb…

_And his hopes rose…_

He was patted down – again. _Seriously, how could he have picked up any contraband between the time he'd been searched leaving the cell, and now, with a guard at his elbow the whole time…_

The guard signaled to someone, the door opened, he stepped inside.

"Peter!"

That had to be the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard, and despite the circumstances he was smiling as Elizabeth appeared in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her, felt hers holding him tight, and for just a moment, all was right with the world again.

"All right, that's enough, head to a table."

The moment of all-rightness disappeared like a puff of smoke, and Peter resisted glaring at the guard who had moved up behind him. He had to remember where – and what - he was now.

From the look in Elizabeth's eyes, it seemed like she was about to argue, so Peter took her hand and led her toward a corner where there were a few open tables. He sat down, pulling her onto the next chair. And for a moment he just let himself get lost looking into her eyes.

"El, it's so good to see you," he finally said. "I wasn't sure they'd let you in before I get a hearing."

"Reese pulled some strings for me," she admitted, shooting a quick, angry glance over her shoulder at the guard who had broken them apart. "Peter, how are you?"

"I've been better," he admitted. _No more lies between them, that was the promise they'd made._ "Didn't get much sleep."

"Are you safe here, Peter? Reese said you'd be in a protection area."

"I'm safe, El. It's an administrative protection unit, and I have a cellmate to watch my back."

Her eyes went wide. "They have you in a cell with someone? Peter, how can that be safe?"

Handholding seemed to be allowed here, based on the couples he could see at other tables, so he reached for her hand again. "Hon, I'm in a cell with Neal."

Now her eyes hardened. "Neal? Peter, if it wasn't for him…"

Peter held up his free hand, stopping her. "El, this is _not_ Neal's fault."

"Peter…"

"No, El, please. Don't go there."

"He brought James Bennett into our lives."

"Well, that's true. But we've talked about this, El. Once I knew about the existence of that box, and what it might contain, there's no way I could have let it go."

She sighed, apparently capitulating. "I know."

"And the fact is, I believed James," he admitted.

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "I did too. I wanted to, for…"

"For Neal's sake," Peter finished softly. "El, your folks may have stuck you with a creepy doll, and mine stubbornly wouldn't let me ride my bike alone to the baseball field until I was almost twelve, but compared to what Neal grew up with, we had it pretty damn good."

"Yeah."

"Before he turned himself in last night, he got Mozzie started working on things."

"I know. I talked to Mozzie last night, and he dropped some photos off at the house this morning."

"Russell showed me. And El, it's a good start, finding photos of James with a gun in the building."

"What does Russell think about your case?"

"He was going to meet with the US Attorney this afternoon and try to get an arraignment scheduled. He can make a bail motion then too."

"Does he think you have a chance for bail?"

There was such hope in her voice as she asked that, and Peter considered his answer carefully. "Pratt is dead, which makes it tough. But the more doubt we can throw on the prosecution's case – like those photos – the better the chances." He paused, squeezing her hand. "Even if they do grant bail, it's apt to be high," he warned.

"Well, we'll figure something out," Elizabeth said, her voice stronger. "I'll call Mozzie again after I leave."

"I think he might be here now, as Neal's attorney."

"He said he has street contacts looking for James."

"And Hughes said the search was top priority for the law enforcement agencies in the area," Peter added.

"Do you think he's still in New York?"

Peter could only shrug. "I wish we knew."

"And you're _sure_ Neal doesn't know where his father is?"

"El, I'm sure. The thing is, James is hanging Neal out to dry too. Pratt accused both of them of assaulting him. According to Neal, he never touched Pratt. James could clear him too by coming in, and just telling the truth."

Elizabeth shook her head, processing that. "He wouldn't even stay to help his son."

"That's the main reason Neal is my cellie now."

"Cellie? You're already speaking prison lingo?"

"I'm learning some, yeah. But if it helps, Neal's agreed to forego the prison sex," he added, going for a smile.

Apparently, he wasn't totally successful in conveying the humor, because his wife's eyes went wide again. "I hope that was a joke."

"Well, we _aren't_ having sex," Peter hurried to clarify. "But yeah, that was sort of supposed to be a joke."

"I guess I'm a little on edge," she admitted.

"El, I promise you, I'm fine. And this will all work out. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but they'll find the evidence, and James, and things will be fine."

She nodded, biting her lower lip, and he knew she was trying to believe.

They were interrupted then by a guard announcing there were five minutes left for the visit.

_And he still had so many things to say…_

Priorities. "El, when they set the arraignment, I'll need you to bring me a suit."

"Russell mentioned that. Any suit in particular?"

"You have better fashion sense than me, so you pick." He paused, considering something. "But… maybe bring my lucky tie."

She smiled, soft and a little sad. "Do you remember when I accused you of having more confidence in that old tie than in Neal?"

He nodded. "Yeah, and you told me to take a leap of faith. I have confidence in Neal now, El. I hope you can too."

"I'll try." And it was her turn to hesitate. "Do you think I'd be able to visit him?"

"Probably. I don't think it's restricted to relatives or anything."

"I'll check. And they told me at the desk that I can get a list of things that are allowed to be brought in. Is there anything specific you need?"

_What he really needed was to be home, with his wife, and find this was all some weird nightmare. That maybe he'd had too much beer and sauerkraut – that combination really gave him some strange dreams…_ "Let's see what Russell finds out about the arraignment, and if I can get bail," was what he actually said out loud. "No sense stocking up here if I might be home soon."

_And he hoped that sounded more confident than he really felt…_

* * *

When she found the first concrete lead, Diana had to blink hard and clear her eyes to make sure what she was seeing. All of them on the core team were working on little to no sleep, lots of bad coffee, and a driving desire to find something – _anything_ – to help Peter's case.

While Hughes and Bancroft took care of the liaising with other agencies – the political schmoozing as Jones put it – the rest of the squad had divided up duties. Since Jones had already been working on video surveillance, even if not exactly in an official capacity, he took point on the video that started to come in based on the warrants that had come through.

With rumored illegal activities stretching back more than three decades, Blake, Westley, and a couple of probationary agents had been dispatched to the archives. Their instructions were to look for anything – _anything_ – that might back up the allegations in the documents from the recovered evidence box.

Diana had briefed the Organized Crime unit first thing in the morning. Fortunately, Peter's reputation extended beyond White Collar, and even George Ruiz held back his normal snippy comments, promising to have his team track down everything that Dennis Flynn, Jr., might have touched in New York. And he had contacts in Baltimore and DC who could be counted on to provide details on the senior Flynn's activities there. If there was a mention of Pratt, they'd find it.

Once that was done, she started with the newest case they knew of – Cole Edwards. The FBI had turned over plenty of evidence to indict Edwards to the US Attorney's office, and from there the investigative arm of the prosecution had taken over the search through Edwards' financial dealings. Normally, the Bureau could get access to those files…

Of course, this wasn't exactly a normal situation and, technically, the US Attorney was on the other side of this case – at least, the other side from those who firmly believed in Peter Burke's innocence.

But delving into financial records was a big part of what White Collar did on a regular basis, and Diana knew what to look for. So when she found the regular, and sizeable, deposits into a seemingly innocent account – well, it didn't look so innocent to her practiced eye. And now she had finally found the link to Pratt.

She double-checked her information, made sure all of the data was in order, then collected printed and electronic copies. E-mails went to Bancroft, Hughes, and Jones, outlining her findings.

And then she made a phone call…

* * *

Peter waited as the cell door was opened and then, with the barest hint of hesitation, he stepped inside. And this time he managed to keep the flinch to a minimum as the barred portal slammed shut behind him.

Neal was sitting cross-legged on his bunk, his head bent low over something. As Peter moved closer he could see it was some kind of drawing; not surprising that Neal would have found a way to at least get basic art supplies already.

"Been drawing this whole time?"

"Nope. My attorney showed up just after you left for your meeting, as a matter of fact."

"_My_ attorney was actually hoping to talk to you."

"Already did. He was there just as I was finishing up, and he asked."

"Russell warned you that he wasn't _your_ attorney, right?" Peter asked. "There's no confidentiality."

Neal nodded. "I was suitably warned. And my attorney was still there."

"Are you _sure_ he's the best… _attorney_ for you?"

"I'm sure he has my best interests in mind." Neal looked up from his work and smiled. "Relax, Peter, Moz knows his limitations. If this winds up in court, I may have different legal representation."

"I just want you to protect yourself, Neal."

"I will. But in this case, there was no reason to _not_ talk to your lawyer. I didn't do anything to impact your case, and I don't know anything else about where James might be. I told Jones and Diana everything I could think of. I answered everything the Secret Service asked too."

"And Callaway?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "She had no idea what to even ask."

"She _was_ looking a little discombobulated when she came back to my room."

Neal looked slightly put out by that. "Only a little? I must be losing my touch."

Peter grinned. "Didn't figure you had to strain yourself too hard on that interrogation." He pulled the stool out and sank down onto it. "I just wish we knew if she was really beholden to Pratt, or just covering her own ass."

"I'd still bet she was in Pratt's pocket," Neal replied. "There might have been something to point to that in the evidence box."

"Oh? Do tell."

"I found something that referenced a Joseph Callaway, back when Pratt was on the Metro DC force… with James."

Peter decided not to push on the anger in Neal's voice over those last two words. "You think this Joseph might be related?"

"Same spelling with the 'a' in the middle instead of the 'o' that's more common. But I only got a quick look. I don't know if there's a mention of a daughter or niece or anything."

"If there's a connection, the team will find it."

"They will. I pointed it out while Jones and Diana were both there."

Peter sighed and leaned back against the table. "This is just so frustrating, not being able to do anything but sit here!"

"I know."

"So what are you working on?"

Neal held up one of the pages – which turned out to be a sketch easily identifiable as James Bennett, except with his hair cut short. "I was trying to think about different ways he could disguise himself."

Peter got to his feet, looking at the other sketches Neal slid over. He saw James with dark hair, bleached hair, sunglasses, a beard. "You're going to get these to your attorney?"

"That's the idea. Moz said he'd try to stop back after meeting with Jones."

Any reply Peter might have made was cut off by the appearance of a guard at the door. "You have a visitor," he said, unlocking the door.

"Which one of us?" Peter asked.

"Both." The guard motioned for them to come out into the hallway. "Your lawyer is back," he said to Peter. "And a couple of official types in fancy suits. Your visitor is prettier," the guard added, as Neal stepped out.

"Probably El," Peter suggested – surprised by the hesitation in Neal's step and on his face.

"Elizabeth?"

"Yeah, she asked if she could see you," Peter explained. "I don't think you're in any danger," he added softly.

"Easy for you to say," Neal muttered as the guard motioned them to start walking.

They followed the same path Peter had already trod a couple of times that day. A second guard joined them at the end of the first hall.

When they reached the first visitation area, with the private rooms for attorneys, one of the guards gestured for Peter to go that way. But he was stopped by one word.

"Peter…"

Peter turned toward Neal, trying to look as encouraging as he could. "You'll be fine, Neal."

Neal didn't exactly look convinced, but the guard was pulling Peter's arm to move him along. He had no choice but to follow.

* * *

He saw her across the room as soon as he was let in, and for the briefest moment he considered calling the guard back, and insisting on being taken back to his cell. _Inmates had the right to refuse visits at Sing Sing – surely they did at Hawthorne too?_

In the end, however, Neal took a deep breath, plastered as much confidence on his face as he could, and bit the proverbial bullet.

Elizabeth met him halfway, gesturing toward an empty table.

He sat down, looking across at her. She looked tired, worried – but not homicidal; maybe Peter was right and he'd survive this.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

"Neal. How are you holding up?"

That surprised him a little, but he thought he covered well. "I've been in worse places," he replied, trying to keep his voice tone light. "How are _you_ holding up, Elizabeth?"

She tried to smile; it came out as more of a grimace. "Oh, I don't know. Instead of dinner with my husband, I got a late-night visit from Reese Hughes telling me that Peter had been arrested – for murder. That may have thrown my day off a little."

Neal nodded, taking a moment to consider his words. "You know that they'll find evidence to clear Peter. Between the FBI, and Moz…"

"Oh, I have confidence he'll be cleared. I just don't understand how this happened in the first place."

"I know it's my fault…"

"Peter doesn't agree."

"What about you?"

From her hesitation, he wondered if he should have asked that. But finally she replied. "I shouldn't have asked you to lie to Peter."

"Elizabeth…"

"No, listen, please. I was scared."

"I understand."

"But making the two of you work separately…" She paused, with a short, bitter laugh. "Well, I've seen what happens then, when it's been your idea."

He nodded slowly. "I know."

"I shouldn't have expected this to end any differently."

"I wanted to keep Peter safe too."

"That's just it, Neal," she said, her voice so low he had to lean in closer to hear the words. "Lies don't keep people safe. And there are always consequences."

He really wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just leaned back in his chair again.

"I should have remembered something I told Sara," Elizabeth continued.

"What's that?"

"That when it counts, you'll be there, and do the right thing."

For a long moment, he just stared at her. "You said that?"

She nodded. "And I meant it."

"Do the right thing," Neal repeated softly. "Sometimes I'm not even sure what that is."

"You'll figure it out." She paused, waiting until his eyes rose to meet hers. "Will you answer something for me, honestly?"

"Of course."

"Is Peter safe here?"

Neal clasped his hands on the table, staring down at his fingers. "The administrative protection unit is fairly small. I didn't recognize any of the other men there, so they're at least not related to any of our recent cases. And there's no direct communication with inmates in the other units."

"But…" she prompted.

"They can get visits, just like this. I assume this is all over the news by now."

"It is. Reese told me they're trying to keep Peter's name out of the reports, for now."

_Which, of course, wouldn't mean much against a talented hacker like Sally… and surely there must be a few working for the media._ "I talked to a couple of the guards, asked them to let me know if they hear any rumblings."

"And you think they'll talk to you about it?"

Neal nodded, trying to make it look confident. "It's all in how you ask. Peter's still one of them, law enforcement, until proven guilty. And so far they're really good at only having one cell open at a time, no mingling."

"So, that sounds… safe."

She made that sound almost convincing, and he admired that. "About as safe as it can be, under the circumstances. And I've got Peter's back, Elizabeth."

"I know."

_Except she looked about ready to cry – time to lighten things up a bit._ "If anything, the bad food might do him in."

"Can I send in food from my caterers?"

"Nothing homemade, I'm afraid." _Though the thought of it was making his stomach rumble._ "Moz has already set up my commissary account, and I put in an order. It won't be gourmet, but we'll at least have something edible by tonight."

"Peter said he didn't need anything right now, but if I should set up an account for him…"

Neal reached across the table, settling his hand over one of hers. "He's not going to be here long enough to need it."

She managed a weak smile at that. "That's what Peter said."

"Believe it."

_Because believing anything else was too much to even consider…_


	9. Evidence

"I can't talk to you about Peter's case."

Diana looked up at the speaker. "Good to see you too, Josh."

Josh Bryson looked around, as if wondering who might be observing him, then he sighed and slipped into the diner booth across from her. "Hello, Diana. And I still can't talk about Peter's case."

"Not why I called you."

"All right, what is it?"

"I need you to get me in to see Cole Edwards."

"You already handed that case off to my office."

"I know that."

"So why would you need to see him?"

Diana laid a file on the table. "I have information linking his payments to Terrence Pratt."

"So this _is_ about Peter's case."

"Not directly."

Bryson sighed again, his hand inching toward the file, but not quite touching it. "How indirectly?"

"I found the link between some of Edwards' kickbacks and an account held by Pratt."

"What? We haven't found anything like that."

Diana allowed herself a small smile at that. "It's what we do."

"It's really Edwards' lawyer you'd need permission from," Bryson started… and then he stopped suddenly. "You want me there to offer a deal," he guessed.

"A big case, tying a Senator to decades of corruption? This can make careers," Diana replied.

"Or break them," Josh muttered. "You're hoping Edwards will flip on Pratt."

"Edwards isn't going to get any support from a dead man. But he can help save an innocent one. We just need it soon, or it's not worth as much."

Bryson looked around again, seeming to be nervous, before he leaned across the table. "Peter really didn't do this, right?"

"No, he didn't."

"They're not letting anyone in the New York office prosecute," Bryson admitted. "We all know Peter, and he's testified in cases for most of us. Rumor is that someone from the Attorney General's office is on the way up from DC."

"Well, we plan to find evidence to clear Peter, no matter who's at the prosecution table."

"That's good, because Peter's made a lot of our cases. If he gets convicted it could…" Bryson could probably feel her glare shooting holes right through him, because he stopped and tried again. "I mean, no one is really thinking about their cases getting overturned on appeal."

"They'd better not be," Diana ground out.

Bryson looked properly chastened. "Right."

"Now, are you willing to deal on the Edwards case?"

Bryson reached for the file. "Let's see what you've got. If it looks promising, I'll contact Edwards' lawyer."

* * *

Jones made his way along the crowded sidewalks, pausing now and then, ostensibly to window shop. Fortunately, the highly reflective glass in many of the shop windows was almost as good as a mirror.

Also fortunately, he'd noticed no signs of being followed yet. He'd taken a circuitous route, and the end-of-the-workday bustle helped as well. Even with surveillance training, he knew he'd have a hard time following someone under these circumstances.

Finally, as sure as he could be that he was moving unobserved, he slipped down into the next subway stop. It would take three trains from here – which meant two transfers during which he could verify that he hadn't picked up a tail.

Then he'd be able to head to Sally's underground lair. He had information to share, and hopefully Sally and Mozzie would have some news as well.

* * *

_Don't leave town…_

Harry Styles let the hotel room door slam behind him as he entered the room, tossing his suit coat onto the desk chair as he headed for the makeshift bar he'd set up on the small round table near the window. Too bad his cheapskate boss wouldn't spring for a room with an actual mini-bar…

Well, make that his _former_ boss. As in deceased.

It had seemed like such a great gig, at first. Bodyguard for a United States Senator? That was a huge step up from his former job as a barely above-water private investigator. But he'd had at least one good case, and resolved it successfully in the eyes of his employer – who turned out to be a well-connected political player. A good word here and there, a recommendation at the right time, and Harry found himself playing in the big leagues.

When it turned out that Pratt had a little action going on outside of the Senate as well, that hadn't been so bad either. Extra pay to make sure that late night meetings in out of the way places went smoothly. An occasional favor or two for the big man's friends. It all added up to a comfortable bank account balance.

And Harry made sure that he never really knew enough details about anything to cause any real trouble.

_Except…_

Except Pratt was dead, and now there was a huge mess. Harry was pretty sure he had his own tracks covered, but with all of the attention on this case, 'pretty sure' wasn't as much comfort as he would have preferred.

In fact, having just spent several hours recounting everything – well, _almost_ everything – from the debacle at the Empire State Building for the FBI and Secret Service, he was _pretty sure_ he was sorry he'd ever left Bowie, Maryland. Having been warned not to leave town until the investigation was wrapped up, he couldn't even go back, not yet.

He poured a generous shot of bourbon into a glass, eyed it wearily, and added some more. He gave a momentary thought to going down the hall to get ice, but quickly decided against it; why water down the painkiller?

He kicked off his shoes, using one hand to bring the glass to his mouth while the other worked to loosen his tie. Intent on getting comfortable, he was just going to drop into the one padded chair the room offered when he saw it.

The envelope was propped up against the pillow, his name written in large, bold print on the front. There was no hotel logo, or anything else to indicate where it came from.

In his time working for Pratt, Harry had seen a lot of anonymous envelopes change hands. And under the circumstances, which were pretty damn shaky, he couldn't imagine that this one would contain good news.

Still, the known was most likely better than the unknown, so he gulped down another swallow of the liquor, set the glass down, and picked up the envelope. It was probably just the stress of his employer's death that made his hands shake as he opened the clasp.

But as he started to look at the documents he found inside, the shaking increased, and it wasn't from past stress. There were banking records, photos, memos – and his name all over everything.

There was also a note, with a name and a phone number to call if he wanted things fixed.

_Shit…_

* * *

Peter stared at the cards in his hand and sighed, shaking his head slowly. He'd have to draw five new cards to even have a reasonable chance at a good hand. "Fold," he said, tossing the cards down. "What is that now, eleven hands in a row to you?"

"Mmmm, twelve, I think," Neal replied, gathering up the cards to shuffle again.

"I can't even figure out how you're cheating," Peter muttered. And it was true – the prison uniforms had short sleeves, and Neal's hands stayed on the table…

"Cheating?" Neal slapped a hand to his chest, his face contorted in a shocked expression. "I'm devastated."

"Of course you are."

"I don't have to cheat."

"You're just that good."

Neal flashed his fanciest grin. "Now you're catching on!"

"It's a good thing we're playing for virtual money," Peter said, pointing at the growing pile of torn paper slips in front of Neal. "I'd owe you my salary for the next two years otherwise." _And that was assuming he kept his FBI job. If he was working for prison wages, it might be more like two lifetimes…_

"Well, I wouldn't want to take advantage of you." Neal started to deal the next hand. "Under the circumstances and all."

Peter sipped at his Pepsi and reached for the bag of chips between them. "Circumstances which are at least marginally better tonight, thanks to you."

"Commissary account is a must. I mean, it's not pizza and a beer…"

"No, but I did appreciate the fresh fruit with dinner."

"I find it helpful to be able to identify what I'm eating."

"Speaking of, what did you do to those ramen noodles to make them edible?"

Neal shook his head, smiling. "You don't think I'll just give away all of my secrets, do you? Win this hand and maybe I'll tell you." He tossed a slip into the middle of the table. "I'll open for five."

* * *

"Kadaugan!"

Jones looked up from his work, smiled, and shook his head. The expression had come from Mozzie, who was now hunched over something with Sally leaning in. And judging by the context and tone of voice, they'd found something.

Actually, Jones was pretty sure the other two had a translation program open in the background, and continually tried to find new ways to express a victory.

Personally, he thought a good old "eureka" should suffice, but whatever…

He rolled his chair closer, and the other two parted a bit to let him in. And when he looked at the monitor, he caught his breath. "Damn."

"James Bennett, clear as day," Sally said.

"And even better," Mozzie added, making a few adjustments on the keyboard to zoom in on a specific section of the photo. "Ta da!"

The gun in the man's hand was unmistakable, the clearest shot yet. "You can almost read the serial number," Jones said softly.

"I'll work on that," Sally promised, turning back to her keyboard.

"What about the search for the car?" Mozzie asked.

Jones rolled back to the workstation he was using. "I haven't found it on any of the other traffic cameras in the area since that last hit near Pelham Parkway."

"So when James was blocked from going west, he turned east." Mozzie pulled a laptop closer and typed something in, pulling up a map. "I'll get word out to concentrate the search for the car in this area."

"I can get the locals to watch too," Jones said. "That's probably 49th precinct territory, maybe 47th."

"Can't hurt, I suppose," Mozzie muttered, already busy with something else.

Jones knew when he was being dismissed. And, honestly, Mozzie's street army probably had a better shot of finding the car than an over-worked city police force, and the FBI didn't have the manpower to blanket an area the size they were talking about.

Mozzie's searchers would probably blend into the area better anyway, which could be important. After all, the idea of finding the car was the hope that James Bennett had gone to ground somewhere nearby. It was still like the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack.

But if he had managed to leave the area, it became more of a search for a needle in an ocean of haystacks.

Jones got to his feet, stretching. "Look, I have got to get a couple hours of sleep tonight, or I won't be any help going forward. And we have to meet with Peter's lawyer in the morning."

Mozzie nodded, waving in the general direction of the door. "Go. We'll e-mail you with anything probative."

"Anything helpful for Neal's case?" Jones asked, pulling on his suit coat.

"Oh, there are things in play."

Under other – normal – circumstances, Jones would have found Mozzie's cryptic answer, and the small, half-hidden smile that accompanied it, worrisome. But tonight, under what could not, under any definition, be called _normal_ circumstances, he took that as good news.

* * *

He was back in one of the numerous, faceless bars that did business in the shadows. Well, technically, the bars did business with plenty of light. It was the people who met there, for reasons other than just drowning their sorrows in alcoholic libations, who searched out the shadows.

The man's name was Devlin, and he looked more like a hippie punk than an expert at forging IDs. But his name had been recommended more than anyone else during his inquiries over the last couple of days.

James had some very specific requirements for his new identity. And, although he did need to get out of the city, he wasn't desperate. In some ways, the slight delay might even be good. If he could stay undetected a few more days, some of the search heat would move away from New York.

He needed to make a few more careful arrangements to get cash – always a bane of living under the radar. But he had a plan, and then a foolproof way to get out of the area.

Just a few more days…

* * *

The second night was better – marginally.

Peter wasn't sure if he should find it comforting – or frightening – that the sounds of the jail were already seeming familiar.

Above him, Neal's breathing had evened out into a soft, steady snore, punctuated occasionally by the sound of a body shifting. _Well, Sara had complained that Neal tossed in his sleep…_

In contrast, someone two cells down was snoring loud enough that it sounded like a chainsaw being used. Maybe even two chainsaws.

Maybe he should have listened to El, one of the many times she'd tried to get him to take one of the yoga classes with her. She swore it helped her relax even when faced with worst of the bridezillas she had to deal with.

Actually, if – _when_ – this was over, he was going to do a lot more with El, period. Neal might be a pretty good companion as far as cellies go, but he was definitely _not_ who Peter wanted to be spending his nights with.

At least Russell seemed fairly confident of getting a preliminary hearing scheduled soon. Maybe it would be like in a television show, with someone rushing into the courtroom with the exculpatory evidence at just the right moment when it seemed like hope might be lost…

More likely it would just be a matter of hoping that between the FBI and Mozzie they would have something – _anything_ – to counter the prosecution's case. Something that would allow the court to grant bail.

Now how he was going to afford what was undoubtedly going to be a very high bail was another question. But it was a question that didn't need to be dealt with right now.

Right now, he wanted to be in _his_ house, snuggled in _his_ bed, not trying to ignore the lumps on the thin pad that passed for a mattress here. He wanted the soft Egyptian cotton sheets that El had discovered at a flea market, with the 'fresh mountain air' scent, not the scratchy bedding here with the industrial laundry soap smell. He wanted El wrapped in his arms, her hair tickling his nose. He'd even be happy to have Satchmo, whining at the door in the wee hours of the morning, desperate to go outside.

Unfortunately, what he wanted didn't seem to be anyone else's priority right now.

What he really _needed_ was to get some sleep, the better to face whatever the new day brought. With that in mind, Peter closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on Neal's even breathing from above him. Hopefully it would inspire sleep in the bottom bunk too.


	10. Prospects

It turned out that Cole Edwards was smarter than might have been indicated by his scheme of substituting inferior building materials. And his attorney was _much_ smarter. With even the possibility of under the table help from Pratt's patronage effectively gone, Edwards was on his own. When they heard the word 'deal,' and heard what the prosecution was offering, they jumped to take advantage of it.

Josh Bryson was satisfied. Trials that relied on complex financial traces were difficult, and so much depended on getting just the right jury. Otherwise people got lost amongst all of the money transactions and outcomes could be unpredictable. Besides, with Edwards agreeing to assist the contractor assigned to verify the structural integrity of the buildings in question, that job would go smoother. Reducing the odds of having a building collapse, with the associated risk of multiple deaths, was definitely a win.

And Diana left the early morning meeting with what she hoped would be a useful piece of the puzzle that would at least suggest reasonable doubt in Peter's case.

* * *

The morning routine already seemed familiar, and Peter found that somehow unsettling. It turned out that breakfast on Fridays consisted of the standard industrial powdered scrambled eggs – made slightly more palatable by the hot sauce Neal had procured. The sausage links were actually edible, though he felt like he should reserve judgment in case they came back up later.

The toast was burned again, a touch of consistency.

The guards had just come to take them for showers when another guard announced that Peter's attorney was there. And so he left Neal to achieve cleanliness while he turned the other way to the consultation rooms.

Even after the two meetings the previous day, Peter still had to stifle his reaction as he walked into the small room - _the guy just looked like a kid._ But, having dealt with a lot of attorneys over the years, defense and prosecution, he had to admit that Russell knew his way around a legal argument.

_It just still felt strange to have to be pulling for the defense side to win in this case…_

Peter took a seat at the table, waited for the door to close behind him. "You're here early in the day. Does that mean news?"

"Good news, I think," Russell replied, pointing at a chair in the corner.

Peter looked that way, and felt his pulse increase just a bit – a clear plastic bag, with a suit inside. "Does that mean you got a hearing scheduled?"

"This afternoon at one o'clock. There will be a lot of security procedures, so you should be ready to go by eleven."

"What kind of hearing are we talking about?"

"It's a preliminary hearing, to show cause to continue the case."

"What should I expect?"

Russell slid a couple of pages across the table. "The entire staff of the local US Attorney's office recused themselves, and rightfully so. You've testified in a lot of their cases. The Attorney General's office is sending someone in as a special prosecutor."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. Regardless of who's at the other table, they still have to prove a case. It just makes this hearing a bit unusual."

"Story of my life, at least these last few years," Peter replied. _What was it Neal had said in the Burma case – that they specialized in the unorthodox…_

"The same procedures still have to be followed," Russell was saying. "The formal charge sheet was filed this morning."

Peter looked down at the indicated page, words like _murder_ and _conspiracy _dancing before his eyes. "We expected this, right?" he managed to ask, though his throat felt strangely tight.

"Absolutely. You'll have to enter a plea."

"Which will be not guilty."

That got a small smile from Russell. "Of course it will. The prosecution will then have to lay out an overview of its evidence to justify continuing the case. After that, we'll have the opportunity to counter with our own evidence to contradict their argument."

"And we do have something to counter the prosecution with, right?"

"Yes, we do. And I should have more by this afternoon. Director Bancroft has asked for a meeting in about an hour. But I wanted to see you first."

Peter nodded. "Any idea what he may have?"

Russell shook his head. "No, not yet."

Peter sucked in a deep breath, let it out. "All right, so the prosecution presents its case, you present ours. What then?"

"I'll make a motion to dismiss the case based on insufficient evidence."

Peter felt his eyes go wide, and he sat up a little straighter. "Do you think there's a chance?"

For the first time Russell hesitated, and then slowly shook his head. "Unless James Bennett is in custody, and talking, by then, the motion will be denied. There's enough _prima facie _evidence to hold the case over for trial. But we can then move to have bail set."

"And we have a chance for that?"

"Definitely. The more doubt we can cast on the prosecution's case, the stronger our argument will be."

"But a high profile murder case…" Peter paused, sighed. "Even if the judge sets bail, it's going to be high."

"Probably," Russell agreed. "One thing at a time. Let's get bail set, and then we can work on meeting it."

"All right, tell me what else I need to know about this hearing…"

* * *

"Moz, how are my legal prospects looking?"

Mozzie conspicuously adjusted his white noise device before answering. "I'm expecting some news on a hearing date soon."

"Something less than the estimated two to three months, I hope?"

"As if I'd let you languish in here that long."

Neal smiled as he took his seat at the table. "It's good to know my attorney has my best interests at heart."

"Always."

"What about helping Peter?"

"Mrs. Suit called just before I got here. Apparently, his preliminary hearing got scheduled for this afternoon."

"He did get a fairly early visit from his attorney, but he hadn't made it back yet before you came. Have you found anything else to help his case?"

"Sally cracked the security code on the last of the surveillance systems last night. Jones has all of the video evidence available from the building."

"And James is on there?"

Mozzie's answering smile was reassuring. "In vivid detail, complete with gun in a few shots."

"That should definitely help. But no sign of him yet?"

"A couple of possible sightings. I've dispatched more people to the areas."

"If he's left New York…"

"No reason to think he has, Neal. In fact, less than an hour ago, June's car was located."

"Not in small pieces at a chop shop, I hope."

"Quite intact. A small ding on one fender, but I'll have that taken care of."

"Where was it?"

"In the Pelham vicinity. Which, coincidentally, is near where the rumored sightings of James Bennett occurred."

"So when he couldn't go west…"

"He apparently turned east," Mozzie finished. "I'm sending reinforcements to the area tonight. The rumored sightings have all been after dark."

"Makes sense," Neal agreed. "He's probably laying low during the day."

"I've got Kato discretely distributing the sketches you did with the different looks."

"Did you tell people to check for the name Sam Phelps too? He must have had ID in Sam's name if he rented a car and a hotel room."

"Done. And Jones said the FBI has checked that name too. But the only Samuel Phelps they've found on a plane manifest was confirmed to be the eleven year old son of a Brooklyn cop, going to Cleveland to visit his grandparents."

"I remembered something else. He told me once his name in witness protection was Joseph Banks. I don't know if he kept any ID from those days."

"It's worth checking. I'll get the name out. I assume you don't object now to your government overseers running that name?"

"No objections at all."

"Consider it done."

"Sounds like you've got it all covered, Moz."

"We'll find him, Neal."

"Yeah." Neal sighed and rested his elbows on the table, leaning wearily against his hands. "I just feel so useless sitting in here."

"You've been here to watch Peter's back," Mozzie replied. "I'd bet he considers that of value."

"I hope so. And hopefully he'll be out of here soon." Neal paused and sat up straight again. "Moz, if they do set bail, in a murder case it's probably going to be more than Elizabeth can come up with."

"Fortunately, we have the resources to do something about that."

"The resources, yes," Neal agreed. _Had Peter ever figured out that not all of the treasure was recovered when they took Keller down?_ "But like you said, you don't have the secure background set up to post a high dollar bail."

It took just a moment of contemplation before Mozzie smiled. "I'm meeting June after this to get the spare key to the Jag so it can be brought back."

"And she would be an excellent front person at the court," Neal agreed.

"The best. I'll talk to her and see what her plans are for the rest of the day."

"Thanks, Moz."

"Anything else you need, Neal?"

"Just for this to all be over," Neal replied quietly. "I just want this over."

* * *

"This is good. This is really good." Hughes looked up, offering the agents across from him a smile. Both Jones and Berrigan had apparently gotten a little sleep last night, and it showed.

Hell, he'd gotten some sleep himself, unlike the night before, and it made a world of difference.

But what was _really_ making a difference in the attitudes of the three of them was what was laid out on the table.

Jones had arrived with photos – lots of photos of James Bennett in the Empire State Building. Some even showed Pratt's gun in his hand. And, even though the exact way the photos had been obtained might not stand up to much legal scrutiny, they now knew which surveillance logs to concentrate on to get the 'official' photos.

Berrigan had had an early morning meeting with Josh Bryson, one of the local prosecutors for the US Attorney's office. He'd handed over the unofficial notes from the statement made by Cole Edwards, detailing Pratt's involvement in his construction scams. The official transcript was promised before noon.

Hughes had additional audio evidence from his friends at NSC. Pratt had been busy on his phone during the train ride to New York. While he might privately have some qualms about how far the NSC was going in its domestic surveillance efforts, this was definitely not the time to voice any reservations. The implications of who Pratt called were staggering – cleaning out the rat's nest of corruption across multiple agencies was going to be a massive undertaking.

"Hopefully it's enough to help Peter at the preliminary hearing," Jones said.

"I think it will," Hughes replied. "I'm seeing Bancroft right after this, and he has a meeting with Peter's attorney a little later."

"I got a call from a friend of mine at the local District Attorney's office," Diana added. "She said Pratt's bodyguard was coming in to make an official statement, and from what he said over the phone, she thought I'd want to be there."

Hughes nodded, starting to gather up the documents and photos spread across the table. "Let me know what you find out."

Jones slid out of the booth and got to his feet. "I'm heading to the Bronx. Ruiz gave me a couple of contacts at one of the local precincts. Gonna talk to them about where someone might hide a Jaguar around there."

"Let's meet again by the courthouse at noon," Hughes suggested.

"There's a good bakery right around the corner," Diana suggested. "Their croissant sandwiches are fantastic."

"You mean Caffrey's place?" Hughes asked.

Jones grinned. "Hey, have you _tried_ those pastries he brings in from time to time?"

Hughes nodded. "I have. All right, The Greatest Cake at noon."

* * *

"Ah, the lucky tie."

"Can't hurt, right?" Peter asked.

"True," Neal agreed. "Any advantage you can get."

"If I could just get it _tied_." Peter sighed and undid the poor excuse for a knot he'd wound up with. He glared at his shaking hands, but they didn't seem to get the message and become steady.

Neal had been sitting cross-legged on Peter's bunk, and he pushed himself to his feet. "Here, let me," he said, grasping the two loose ends of the offending item.

"Can't remember ever being this nervous before court," Peter said, holding his neck and shoulders still as Neal worked. _Of course, he couldn't remember needing help with a tie since he was a child either…_

"Well, you don't usually have as much of a personal stake in the outcome." Neal stepped back, studying his work for a moment before nodding in approval.

"That's true," Peter admitted, accepting the suit coat that Neal held out. Apparently being a federal agent still got him a few favors, because he'd been allowed to dress for court in the cell, instead of having to travel in the garish orange jail uniform. And now, suit and tie in place, he felt more like himself again. He could even feel his shoulders straightening, almost as if of their own free will.

"Looks good," Neal said, stepping back. "Projecting confidence."

"I do have innocence going for me."

"Keep believing in that."

"Well, that, and the lucky tie."

Neal smiled and sat down again. "An unbeatable combination, I'm sure."

Peter flipped the end of the tie up idly. "If it works for me, I could lend you the tie."

Neal scrunched his nose up in distaste. "Pass, but thanks."

"Are you dissing my lucky tie?"

"I'm thinking the luck may be specific to you on this one."

"Is that a diplomatic way of saying the tie is ugly and you wouldn't be caught dead wearing it?"

Neal just grinned. "Just saying luck is an individual thing."

Peter returned the smile, though his was a little more tentative. _Nerves, he'd guess…_ "Maybe so. But you know, there was a time El accused me of having more faith in this tie than in you."

"She may have been right."

"She might have been, at the time. Not any more though."

Neal sighed, his smile gone. "Probably better to have faith in the tie today."

"Neal…"

The sound of the door being unlocked stopped any further conversation. "Time to go, Burke."

"Right." Peter tugged at his cuffs one more time. "Time to face the consequences."

"Consequences," Neal said softly. He looked up, his voice stronger as he spoke again. "Good luck, Peter."

"Thanks."

"And Peter, I really don't want to see you back here."

Peter paused at the door and looked back. "Was I that bad a cellie?"

"Not that bad. But I think Elizabeth wants you home."

At the guard's direction, Peter stepped into the hallway and then waited as the door was locked again. "Even if I get bail, it might be a while before we can raise it."

"Nah, you're covered," Neal replied.

Peter was still wondering what that meant as he was led away.

* * *

Wendell Halprin hung up the phone, then sat and stared at the now-silent instrument for a long moment.

It had been an unexpected – and not entirely pleasant – conversation.

_Yes, he'd received the special-delivery envelope. Yes, he recognized the people in the photos… all too well. Yes, he understood what would happen if his wife saw the photos._

The affair had never been without risk, which had somehow made it more exciting. And now that risk had apparently caught him up.

Taking a deep breath, Wendell turned back to his computer and pulled up a file. The request – _demand_ – from the person on the other end of the phone had been unusual, to say the least. As the regional head of the probation office, he had control over scheduling hearings. Not that he usually did that himself, of course; it was better delegated to his staff.

He'd make an exception in this case.

And actually, now that he thought about it, the demand wasn't really that much. The caller hadn't insisted that he make a specific determination on the outcome of the case, just that he schedule a hearing _post haste._

A small price to pay, compared to alimony, and losing the society contacts from Gwen's family.

Yes, he could probably cobble together a hearing board next Wednesday. _Maybe he could even squeeze it in on Tuesday…_


	11. Paperwork

_Premeditated… Conspiracy… Off the books investigation… Malice… Out of control… Reckless… Assassination… Post-traumatic stress… _

By the time Willa Sherman, the prosecutor sent up from the federal Attorney General's office in DC, had finished presenting her case, Peter was almost ready to convict himself. She made it all sound so plausible – that he'd pushed the boundaries one too many times, with deadly results.

Add in the ballistic confirmation that his own service weapon had fired the fatal shot, the gunshot residue on his hand, and the fact that no one else had been in the room when Callaway and Watson arrived…

It was a good thing he'd had to say the words "not guilty" at the beginning of the proceedings. His voice had been clear and strong then as he entered the plea.

Fortunately, Russell didn't appear shaken by the prosecutor at all.

"Is the defense ready to present its argument, Mr. Mansur?" Judge Corbin asked.

Russell stood up, pausing to adjust his suit coat. "We are, your Honor."

"Proceed."

"Defense Exhibit A." Russell walked the documents up to the clerk's table. "The sworn statement from Special Agent Peter Burke, detailing the events that transpired in the Empire State Building two days ago. More specifically, detailing how James Bennett fired the shot that killed Senator Terrance Pratt."

"I hope you have more than that," Sherman muttered.

"Any remarks should be addressed to the Court," Corbin admonished.

"Yes, sir," Sherman replied, though Peter didn't think she sounded very genuinely sorry.

Russell seemed to take it all in stride. "There's much more. Exhibit B, the sworn statement from Neal Caffrey that he witnessed James Bennett confess to the shooting."

"Objection." Sherman was on her feet, and very definitely addressing the judge this time. "Mr. Caffrey is a convicted felon, and a known con artist. His statement can hardly be accepted as evidence."

"Actually, Mr. Caffrey's only conviction was for bond forgery," Russell pointed out. "Any allegations of other crimes are unfounded in the eyes of the law."

Despite the situation, Peter found himself struggling not to smile. _Neal was going to love hearing how his name had been defended in court._

"In addition," Russell continued. "Mr. Caffrey has spent the last two and a half years working as a consultant for the FBI."

"If you don't count his little escape to a non-extradition country," Sherman started.

Corbin banged his gavel, demanding everyone's attention. "Ms. Sherman, this is an evidentiary hearing only, as you well know. If this case proceeds to trial, you'll have the opportunity to cross-examine Mr. Caffrey about his statement to determine its veracity. For now, it's admitted."

Sherman sat down, and Russell offered Peter a quick smile before continuing. "Photos," he said, handing over a thick stack to the clerk. "Of James Bennett leaving the Empire State Building – an action he undertook stealthily, and at a time that exactly coincides with Agent Burke's statement of what transpired. We submit these as Defense Exhibits C through S." He handed another set of the photos to Sherman. "You'll note that Exhibits D, F, M, P, Q, and S clearly show Mr. Bennett with a gun in his hand."

Peter thought the hasty, whispered conversation at the prosecution table was a good sign.

"Exhibit T," Russell continued. "Official documentation from the FBI Evidence Recovery Team verifying the security tapes that these photos came from, as well as the timestamps."

From what he'd heard, most of the photos hadn't actually been discovered by ERT… but Peter was relieved that the FBI had been able to confirm the evidence found by other, slightly less official, sources.

Russell was still presenting evidence. "Exhibit U, your Honor. The FBI's experts have reviewed these photos, and determined that the gun in James Bennett's hand is, in fact, a Walther PPK .380. Exhibit V, a copy of the concealed carry license issued by the State of Maryland to Terrance Pratt for the same type of gun. Exhibit W, a statement from Harry Styles, the late Senator's bodyguard, affirming that the Senator was, in fact, carrying the gun that day. Exhibit X, the evidence list from the FBI's forensics review, showing that the only handgun recovered at the scene belonged to Agent Burke. Exhibit Y, the coroner's report, which includes an accounting of the personal property found on the deceased – an empty holster was among those items. And Exhibit Z, your Honor, a sworn statement from Cole Edwards detailing Mr. Pratt's involvement in an illegal scheme to defraud investors on building projects."

Peter caught the subtle shift there – it was _mister_ Pratt now, no longer Senator. It felt much like when Callaway had refused to recognize him by his title of Agent.

Russell had been right – it would be very unwise to underestimate him.

"Anything else, Mr. Mansur?" Corbin asked.

"That is the evidence we've been able to accumulate in less than two full days, your Honor. All of which supports Agent Burke's statement."

"Are there any motions at this time?"

"Yes, your Honor," Russell said immediately. "We move for a dismissal of all charges against Agent Burke, with prejudice."

Sherman jumped to her feet again. "You Honor, we have Mr. Burke's gun, his fingerprints…"

Corbin held up his hand. "Yes, I'm aware of the evidence presented by the prosecution." He paged through a few of the documents that the clerk had marked and handed up to him. It took a few minutes, mostly marked by silence in the court, before he looked up again. "Motion denied," he said. "With no ability here to question anyone who has provided this evidence, and no other way to probe its validity, I have to rule that the State has presented probable cause to hold this over for trial."

"Then the defense requests that bail be set," Russell said.

"Objection," Sherman countered. "This is potentially a capital murder case. Bail is out of the question."

Russell was ready with his counter-argument. "Your Honor, there is significant evidence to indicate that the death of Senator Pratt was not as clear-cut as Ms. Sherman would like to pretend. Given more time, we intend to discover additional evidence to establish my client's innocence in this matter. Furthermore, Peter Burke is a federal agent, with numerous commendations to his name, not to mention a conviction rate over the last couple of years that puts every other unit in the country to shame. He has long-standing ties to the community, and he and his wife have made their home in the same neighborhood for over a decade."

Corbin looked out over the courtroom, obviously considering. Finally, he nodded and reached for a pen. "I'm going to grant bail in this case," he announced, scribbling on a form. "Bail in the amount of two million dollars, cash or bond. In addition, the defendant is ordered to surrender his passport and any personal firearms he may possess."

"Actually, your Honor, Agent Burke's personal weapon was seized during the search of his home yesterday morning," Russell said. He picked something up from the table, holding it out. "And Agent Burke's wife brought his passport to me earlier today."

The judge motioned for the clerk to take the passport. "The defendant will be remanded back to the Hawthorne holding facility until such time as bail can be posted…"

"Excuse me, your Honor, I'll be posting the bail within the next half hour."

Peter turned in his seat, watching as June Ellington stood up and made her statement. And now Neal's words – that bail was covered – made more sense.

_He wondered who was really putting up the money…_

But then he saw Elizabeth, standing next to June, hope and fear on her face, and he decided to stop worrying about it. However they had arranged it, he had friends who were willing to put that kind of trust in him. Not that he planned to jump bail, but still…

"In that case, Bailiff, take the defendant to one of the holding rooms here," Corbin was saying. "The clerk will process the paperwork so that the defendant is free to leave once the bail is confirmed."

Peter barely heard the words, his eyes still locked on Elizabeth's. He thought his attorney might be telling him something, but he couldn't concentrate on the words. Someone was taking his arm, pulling him away, but still he held her eyes. "Soon, El," he said, though it might not have been out loud.

From her smile, he thought she heard him anyway.

* * *

Neal sighed and tossed the cards down on the bunk. He'd been staring at the same solitaire hand for…

Well, he wasn't even sure how long it had been.

But if there had been a red eight on which to put the black seven, he surely hadn't seen it.

Now the poker game with Peter last night had kept his interest. Not that he wished for Peter to be back in the cell, of course. That was the last thing he wanted. But their friendly game, marked by their best attempts at banter, had at least made the existence of the concrete walls and hard metal bars fade a bit, for a while.

He'd even let Peter win the hand that came with the prize of the ramen noodle secret.

_And he really was curious how it would turn out if Peter actually did try making the recipe at home for Elizabeth._

The preliminary hearing was supposed to start at one o'clock. Based on what the last guard had told him when he'd asked what time it was, it had to be after four o'clock now. And that had to be a good sign… right? This was just an evidentiary hearing – no witnesses, no cross-examination. Even with added security, Peter should have been back by now.

If things hadn't gone well.

So he was going to assume that things _had_ gone well…

Until there was proof that it hadn't.

* * *

Peter paused at the bottom of the steps, looking up. The townhouse had been 'home' for almost a decade, and yet it looked, somehow, foreign.

_Had it really only been two days…_

Elizabeth had gone ahead, and he drew his attention back to the present, seeing her waiting for him, a puzzled look on her face. He took a deep breath, smiled, and walked up the stairs.

Inside, the smells were familiar, and almost overwhelming. El preferred a soft vanilla scent, and it was represented in the various air fresheners and potpourri throughout the house. Above that, the luscious smell of freshly baked bread was wafting from the kitchen, along with a savory scent that was making his stomach rumble.

Peter's inventory of the familiar sights and sounds was interrupted just then by a mass of fur. Satchmo came running, bumping up against his legs for attention, tail whipping back and forth about a hundred miles an hour.

He hadn't realized how much he could miss the simple things, like the unconditional love of a dog.

Peter busied himself giving Satchmo the attention he was demanding, then started when he realized Elizabeth was saying something. "Sorry, hon, what was that?"

She smiled – that patient, yet long-suffering smile he knew so well. "I said, since I didn't know when we'd be home, I put a stew in the slow cooker before I left this morning, and I set the bread machine. It's ready whenever you want to eat."

"Soon." He straightened up, looking around. "Seems like I've been gone years."

"Felt like that to me too," she admitted softly.

Peter stepped closer, opening his arms, and she stepped into the opening. "I'm so sorry, El."

"I was so worried."

"I know." He held her tight for a long moment, and then sighed.

"Peter? What is it?"

"It's just…" He paused, trying to put his unease into words. "I feel like I should be _doing_ something."

"Hughes specifically told you that you couldn't be involved in the investigation."

"I know."

"Honey, I know you're not good at standing on the sideline," she said carefully. "But it's the best thing to do this time."

"I just keep thinking maybe there's something I could do."

"Like what?"

"Tracking down some of the leads from the evidence box," Peter suggested. "Probably a lot of things that lead to financial crimes, which is right up white collar's alley."

"And you know that your team is on top of that."

"I know." He sighed again. "I just feel like there's something I should be able to do to help Neal too." He felt her stiffen in his arms and pull back slightly. "El?"

"I should have known it would be Neal," she said softly.

"El, this isn't…"

"Peter, I'm not blaming him. I'm really not. It's just…"

"Tell me, El."

She stepped back in, leaning her head against his chest. "I don't think you can understand how worried I was, Peter. How worried I still am."

"I never wanted to put you through this, El."

"I know that, Peter."

"What can I do?"

"Tonight, I need you. _Just_ you – no case, no worry about Neal. Can you do that?"

His voice shook as he replied. "Yes, I can do that."

She leaned back, looking up at him. "That's what I need. I need it to just be us tonight. And then tomorrow… tomorrow we can think about the rest."

* * *

Neal waited for the door to close and then dropped into the chair on the near side of the table. "My cellmate hasn't returned. Please tell me that's good news."

"It is." Mozzie slid a photo across the table. "The Suit made bail."

Neal studied the picture for a moment. He recognized the courthouse in the background and, of course, the people in the foreground. Peter, his arms wrapped around Elizabeth, the two of them oblivious to anyone or anything around them. "That's great. And June?"

"As you predicted, she was the perfect front. Very respectable."

"Thanks for setting it up, Moz."

"Of course." Mozzie reached into his briefcase again. "Now, in other news."

Neal glanced at the document, and then looked up, surprised. "Tuesday?"

"The probation board confirmed it this afternoon."

"How'd you get a hearing scheduled so quickly?"

"I have my ways."

"Moz…"

"Neal, sometimes it's best to just accept. Trust me, no innocent lives were taken to get this hearing set."

Neal was pretty good at reading between the lines – and what Mozzie was really saying was that it was in his best interest not to ask too many questions. That did nothing to quench his desire to _know_… but he was smart enough to let it drop.

For the moment.

"Anything I _do_ need to know about it?"

Mozzie slid a business card across the table. "A name."

"Antonia Hollette?"

"Your new attorney. I'll be meeting with her tonight, and I expect she'll be here to see you on Monday to discuss strategy."

"I take it she comes highly recommended?"

"Very. Nasty says she's the best he's seen in a long time."

"That's a good endorsement. And terms?"

"Entirely satisfactory." Mozzie handed over another document. "You'll need to sign this."

Neal scanned it quickly. "Change in legal representation."

"It'll give Antonia easier access to you, and to any new evidence the government stooges might try to use against you."

Neal ignored the description of the government agents as he signed the form. "And what they have so far?"

"Nothing to worry about," Mozzie assured him as he filed the document away.

Neal figured he'd be doing some worrying over the weekend anyway, but it was still reassuring to hear the confidence in Mozzie's voice. "And the other matter?"

Mozzie conspicuously adjusted the control on his white noise generator before answering. "Several strong rumors on the whereabouts of James Bennett. Kato is running a few of them down as we speak. And I'm concentrating resources in the Pelham area."

"I'll feel a lot better once we find him."

"I've got everything in motion I can think of, Neal."

"I know, Moz. And I appreciate it." Neal sighed and leaned back away from the table. "I just feel so damn useless sitting in here."

"I can get you out…"

"Legally?"

Mozzie hesitated and then shook his head. "No. You'd be on the run."

"I appreciate the thought, but I really don't want that, Moz."

"I figured."

"Let's just get everything in order for Tuesday."

Mozzie put everything back in his briefcase and snapped the latches closed. "Consider it done."

* * *

James slid the envelope across the table, studying the surrounding crowd as the man across the table held it underneath to count the money. The crowd both made this a safe meeting place, and a dangerous one – prying eyes seeing that kind of cash could negate the comfort that anonymity brought.

Finally, the forger looked up, nodding. "It's all here."

_Of course it was…_ "Half now, as agreed," James said. "How long?"

"We're talking special order here. Maybe a week…"

"Not good enough. Monday."

"Not even possible. Now if you want American instead…"

"No, I want the Irish papers."

"That's going to take longer – and no one is going to get it any faster."

James sighed, capitulating – to a degree. "Tuesday then."

The forger considered for a moment and then countered. "Wednesday."

It was longer than he wanted, but not actually out of line for the foreign ID he demanded. "Fine. Wednesday night, nine o'clock." He slid a piece of paper across the table. "This location."

The forger slipped the paper into his pocket without looking at it. "I'll see you then."

James watched the younger man leave, then raised his hand to signal for another beer. He wasn't going anywhere until at least Wednesday night, so might as well be comfortable.


	12. Discovery

Sleep was a long time coming.

It was strange, Peter mused – for two nights in a cell he'd thought of little else besides being at home, in his own bed. Now here he was, in his bed, with Elizabeth curled by his side and Satchmo snoring softly by the door. The normal sounds of the neighborhood filtered through the window, and the shadows on the ceiling were comfortably familiar.

And yet…

And yet, Peter couldn't sleep. No matter how good he thought he _should_ be feeling right now, it was hard – impossible – to forget that he was only at home because he'd been granted bail. And because someone had put up that two million dollar bail.

_June had refused to answer directly, but Peter had his suspicions…_

So yes, he was home, in his own bed, with the woman he loved by his side. But he was still a suspected murderer, and showing enough reason for the judge to grant bail was a far cry from establishing the reasonable doubt that a trial would require for a not guilty verdict.

And, yes, he had to admit that he was worried about Neal too. Oh, not so much about his physical safety at Hawthorne. Security had seemed adequate, even to protect an FBI agent and a confidential informant. No, the concern was more about how Neal was really handling the betrayal by his father. Peter had enough experience to know that his partner didn't always show or express his true emotions. In fact, with Neal, the true emotions were probably more the exception than the rule.

_Though he thought they'd been making progress on that recently…_

Mostly, he felt powerless to do anything, and that wasn't a feeling that he was used to. And he most certainly didn't like it. But he'd been given strict instructions to not even _think_ about trying to go to the office. If there was anything personal he needed from his desk, it would be brought to him.

And that actually gave him an idea. There must be _something_ that he needed. And if he could get Jones or Diana to bring it to Brooklyn, and if they just _happened _to bring a case file or two with them…

It was definitely something to consider in the morning.

* * *

Sleep was a long time coming.

It was a little surprising, Neal reflected. Not that he'd slept _well_ the last two nights – certainly not as well as if he had been home in his familiar antique tiger oak bed at June's. But he understood the value of sleep as a tool, and over the years he had trained himself to sleep under a variety of circumstances. After all, if one suddenly found oneself running – say, from an unexpected FBI encounter – it was good to be well-rested.

Tonight, however, all of his sleep techniques were failing him.

Oh, not that he hadn't spent nights alone in a cell before – in fact, he'd spent a _lot_ of nights in a cell, and most of them, thankfully, alone. And when he had been forced into a two-man cell on a few occasions, he'd never had a cellmate he could trust.

Not like Peter, the man he trusted on so many levels.

Not that he wanted Peter back in the cell, of course. No, Peter was home, where he should be, and where he needed to stay.

It was just so frustrating to be unable to do anything about _keeping_ Peter free. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have taken the opportunity to go on the run when Jones and Diana had offered it to him. He'd be out there, free…

And, not for the first time, he sighed, and acknowledged that he'd made the right choice. Going on the run sounded like such a fanciful thing, but only those who had actually lived the life could really understand how stressful and time-consuming it was. Staying ahead of pursuit by the FBI, and assorted other law enforcement agencies, would have taken pretty much all of his time and energy, leaving precious little of either to spend on looking for James Bennett.

As difficult as it was to admit, he was where he needed to be. And he had made what contributions he could, whether it was exchanging ideas and plans with Mozzie, reassuring Elizabeth, sketching James' possible new looks – or keeping an FBI agent safe in lockup.

But the really bad thing about lockup, and particularly the long nights, was the sheer amount of time that went by with _nothing_ external to interrupt it. And that left an awful lot of time to be filled with one's own thoughts.

Sometimes, being alone with his thoughts had been a good thing. Some of his most memorable, and satisfying jobs – from his _former_ career – had been dreamt up over long, sleepless nights, often the result of hiding out. _Something about those unexpected FBI pursuits…_

Other times, however, having too much time on his hands – and too many racing thoughts to fill that time – could be a bad thing. Peter seemed to understand that. _No one wants a bored Neal Caffrey around…_

Yeah, he'd heard that one a few times. And, once again, Peter was probably right.

But Peter wasn't there, the long night was upon him, and Neal found his mind inundated with so many disparate and, sometimes, conflicting thoughts.

_Time to face the consequences…_

That was the thought he kept coming back to most often though. He could hear Peter saying the words as he'd been preparing to leave for the hearing.

Through much of his adult life, Neal had been mostly oblivious to consequences. Well, more accurately, he had forced himself not to consciously consider them.

But now, that old 'be a con or a man' challenge seemed to be catching up to him. He was thinking about consequences.

A lot…

* * *

Krystal Konners stepped into the corner, as far back into the shadows as she could get, and kicked her shoes off. The night was winding down, the clientele starting to make their way out into the darkness – and her stiletto heels were killing her feet.

Her first job of the day, working a breakfast-lunch shift at a small diner, hadn't been so bad. Of course, she didn't have to wear the heels there – and the paycheck came under the name of Darla Connors. But Darla Connors wouldn't get the strip club gig she worked in the afternoons; cash only, so the name was only important as far as bringing in tips, and 'Krystal' did all right on that. A few more months, and good word of mouth, and she might be able to move up to the more lucrative nighttime shift.

Then she could ditch this late-night work at what was probably the most run-down bar in the Bronx.

The good thing about it was that people tended to drink a lot here, and as they got progressively more drunk, they tipped better. And she got paid under the counter, in cash, so no pesky tax forms.

She was just climbing back into the first shoe when the door to the men's room opened and someone stepped out. The back corner was tight, and she turned sideways to make room – which led to a perfect view of the man going by.

_Older, graying hair, blue eyes…_

He offered a small smile in the tight quarters, and she returned it by reflex. And then he was gone, heading for a dark booth over on the other side of the bar.

_Bambi's zone, that's why she hadn't seen him before._

Reaching over the bar, she fumbled for the flyer she'd seen at the start of her shift. Someone was looking for a guy who matched that description.

And once she saw the photo, she was sure.

Leaving her shoes where they were, Krystal pushed through the swinging door that led into the storage room. She grabbed her purse from the storage cubby and pulled out her phone, dialing the number from the flyer.

If this paid off, so long three jobs…

* * *

The weekend passed quickly.

Peter didn't even have to "remember" some personal thing he needed from his office. Jones showed up early Saturday morning with a tie from Peter's catch-all drawer – just in case it was one Peter might need for… something.

If he also happened to bring copies of some of the documents from the evidence box, well, technically, any information there related to potential crimes that were three decades old. And technically, Peter had only been told to keep away from any current cases.

And technically, if Mozzie had just happened to give Jones the location of a storage locker, along with a key to that locker, there was nothing that said Peter couldn't look through whatever was in the boxes Jones had brought from that locker. And if Jones just happened to have some free time to help, well, he was off duty – just a friendly visit.

The news that Neal had, somehow, gotten a probation hearing scheduled for Tuesday came as a welcome surprise. According to Elizabeth, Mozzie had merely announced the news when he called Saturday morning, with no details on how that expedited schedule had been achieved.

And Peter knew that some questions were better left unasked.

So he thanked his wife for the update and kissed her as she left the house, a list of what was allowed to the detainees at Hawthorne in her hand. There would be a nice care package dropped off for Neal later that day.

Peter wasn't actually allowed to visit his partner, and that bothered him. Until a few days ago, he had perfectly understood the rule that prohibited convicted, and accused, felons from visiting. Now, it seemed like an unreasonable burden. And there were petition and review procedures, of course – but if Neal's hearing went well on Tuesday, Peter would never get approval before then anyway.

If the hearing didn't go well, Peter had a feeling that Neal's attorney would be at work on some other 'release' plan.

Again, a question better left unasked.

And apparently Neal had a new attorney for the actual hearing. Mozzie had passed on a request for a meeting to discuss the reasons for removing the anklet. Since he and Neal had had ample time to discuss that during their time as cellies, Peter knew they were on the same page.

He called the attorney and made an appointment for Monday afternoon.

By the time Diana showed up on Saturday afternoon, with an empty insulated lunch bag that had protected a delicious deviled ham sandwich, but which he had, actually, forgotten under his desk, Peter was already deep into his search for answers. The three of them called for pizza delivery and dug into the research.

The Archaeologist was in his element.

* * *

The weekend passed, slowly, but with an end game in sight. For Neal, that made the time tolerable.

Diana showed up early on Saturday, ostensibly to 'question' him about some facts in the case. When his answers were, apparently, unsatisfactory, she left some files with him so he could refresh his memory. And since, technically, he hadn't been charged with a crime – yet – and was only there for a hearing on a potential probation violation, the rules on what he could have in his cell were a little more lax.

He propped himself against the new pillows, courtesy of Elizabeth's visit, and read through everything, making notes on anything that seemed out of place, or worthy of follow-up. His current attorney showed up for a consultation each day, bringing the welcome news on Saturday that there was a confirmed sighting of James Bennett at a bar in the Bronx.

Mozzie had some leads to follow up on.

He met his new attorney Monday morning; he liked her.

Antonia Hollette was older – probably about Ellen's age, he guessed. Her no-nonsense short-cropped grey hair reflected her attitude. She exuded confidence, and elicited trust. He was feeling a little more confident about Tuesday, especially after she outlined her strategy for using Peter's testimony.

* * *

"You disappoint me, Devlin."

The other man jumped, startled, and turned so quickly he sloshed his coffee all down the front of his "I Do ID" t-shirt. "Mozzie! I, uh… I don't know what you mean."

Mozzie stepped out from his concealed spot in the alley, angling to block the forger from getting to the subway stop behind him. "Oh, think hard."

"Mozzie…"

Mozzie pulled out a copy of the reward flyer, shoving it in front of the younger man's face. "Look familiar? I know Kato included you in the distribution. But now I find out that you've been meeting with him, and not calling me."

"Look, Moz, turning in my clients is bad for business."

"No, what's bad for business is crossing me," Mozzie replied. "Some might even say fatal for business."

"He's paying a lot of money," Devlin started.

"You already have the money?"

"Well, half of it. Half down, half on delivery."

"Tell me what I need to know, and he won't be in any position to demand a refund. What are you doing for him?"

"He's looking for the standard papers… just, Irish."

"Irish papers. That's interesting. How long did you tell him it would take?"

"I _told_ him a week…"

"And when did you actually settle on delivery?"

Devlin sighed. "Wednesday night."

"Where?"

"If I tell you… do I get part of the reward money?"

"If you tell me, maybe I don't burn your whole operation."

Devlin sighed and reached for the notebook Mozzie held out. "It's a warehouse…"

* * *

Neal got only a quick glimpse of Peter at the hearing, but it was enough for their eyes to meet, and to give each other a quick nod that they were each carrying on.

It was reassuring.

Neal had been in the hearing room at the beginning, to hear the introduction – including the reasons his status had been called into question. Then he'd been led out, under the watchful eyes of two Marshals, while first Harry Styles, and then Peter Burke, had been called to testify.

Now, he was back, and he took his seat next to Antonia. The smile she gave him was small, but encouraging.

The chairman of the panel, who had introduced himself as Dean Carson, cleared his throat and looked down at some notes on the table in front of him. "Mr. Caffrey, after hearing the testimony from Mr. Styles, the Board is satisfied with your statement that you did not, in fact, assault the late Senator Pratt. We will enter that finding into the record, and provide the information to the authorities investigating his death."

Neal breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir." A new criminal battery charge would have been a bigger problem than anything else.

"We have also heard from Peter Burke concerning the circumstances of removing your tracking anklet," Carson continued. "We do have some questions for you regarding that."

"My client will be happy to answer any questions regarding his actions," Antonia replied. "But I will remind the Board that Mr. Caffrey was not involved in the actual FBI operation that day, and has no personal knowledge of anything regarding that."

"So noted," Carson said. "And let's start with that. Mr. Caffrey, you had been excluded from the search in the Empire State Building, as confirmed by Agent Burke's testimony. And yet, that's exactly where you wound up. Please explain that."

Neal nodded, taking a moment to choose his words. "The woman I was dating, Sara Ellis, had accepted a new job in London. We'd actually agreed to keep things casual, but then when I knew she was leaving…" He paused; dramatic effect. "Well, it made me realize how much she really meant, and what I really wanted."

Carson held up a document. "We have a statement from Ms. Ellis, certified by the legal attaché in London, that you proposed."

"Yes sir, I did."

"And you chose the Empire State Building, despite the fact that there was an FBI operation being conducted there and you had been ordered to stay away."

"I had been told I was not to be a part of the search operation," Neal clarified. "But the Empire State Building is a public place. And, as you know, my travel options have been somewhat restricted as part of my probation. A romantic weekend in Paris was out, and there wasn't going to be a moonlit stroll on a secluded beach in Tahiti. Even options in New York were limited. In short, by the time I came to my senses, I had a limited range, and an extremely short timeframe, in which to propose. The top of the Empire, with the city at our feet, was the most compelling option I could find. And, fortunately, they had an opening in the schedule."

"An opening you booked under the name Nicholas Halden."

Neal nodded; it was an anticipated question. "As you've noted, I was not to be involved in the search operation – and I never actually went near the search area, other than in the elevator. But I was afraid that the name 'Neal Caffrey' in the building's reservation system might trigger an alert."

"So you made the decision to use an alias."

"Yes, I did. But the thing is, the FBI knows about the Halden alias – they have for years. In fact, 'Nick' has helped the Bureau on a number of cases. A close check of the reservations would have turned that up, but all I needed was that short window to spend the time with Sara. And it's certainly not as if she didn't know exactly who and what I am."

Carson made a few notes and then looked up again. "All right, we've established why you were at the location. But a key provision of your probation was the wearing of an electronic monitoring anklet, was it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet, the anklet was removed. Tell us why this shouldn't be considered a violation of the terms of your probation."

Neal reached for the glass of water in front of him, taking a sip; it gave him a moment to pull together the pertinent points Antonia had approved. "Sir, the fact is, the anklet is removed any time I go undercover, which happens quite frequently. The job might involve me walking out with a briefcase full of FBI money, and sometimes the tracker has been off for days at a time, if it was a situation where a meet might come up at any moment. I don't take advantage of those times to commit any crimes. In fact, I take my responsibility to do my job very seriously. And it's more than just knowing that _not_ doing my job could get my probation revoked. Peter Burke is more than just my handler. He's my friend." Neal paused again for some water. "Peter believed me when I said I had not assaulted Senator Pratt – and you've established that here. He also trusted me that I'd just go home afterward, which is exactly what I did. When we left the Empire State Building, I put Sara in a cab for the airport; I couldn't even go with her to see her off. I went home, fully expecting Peter to show up a little later with the anklet."

One of the other Board members spoke up. "That's where you were arrested later that day."

"Well, I _was_ arrested later," Neal acknowledged. "But not at home. I was in my apartment when Agent Berrigan called to tell me what had happened to Senator Pratt. And I was there when she arrived. I went with her voluntarily to answer questions." _Antonia had said it was important to note that._ "The arrest came after that."

"We did submit statements from Agent Berrigan, and Director Bancroft, attesting to the voluntary nature of Mr. Caffrey's appearance to answer questions," Antonia pointed out.

Carson nodded. "Yes, the statements have been recorded. Anything else you'd like to say for the record, Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal nodded. "Yes, sir, just this. Peter Burke is a highly respected agent. As a team, we close over ninety-four percent of our cases. He was absolutely confident that removing the anklet that day would be no issue. No one could have foreseen the death of Senator Pratt." _Well, with the possible exception of James… but he couldn't get distracted by that now._

"One more question," Carson said. "Whose idea was it to remove the tracking anklet?"

"It was Agent Burke's idea," Neal replied. It was true, so he knew he wasn't contradicting Peter's testimony.

Carson put his hand over the microphone that was recording the proceedings, and the other two Board members leaned in. Neal did his best to look confident as they talked, though he strained to hear any of the conversation. He caught a few phrases - like 'in agreement' and 'discretion' – which he hoped were good signs.

_Maybe he should work some more on his lip-reading skills._

He glanced casually at his attorney. Antonia was leaning back in her chair, seemingly unconcerned – he hoped she was really that confident in their case, and not just acting. Still, as he well knew from the art of the con, projecting an image of confidence could sometimes be as good as the real thing.

He leaned back, mimicking her pose.

The Board members conferred quietly for a few minutes, and then slid back into place at their table. Carson took his hand away from the microphone and leaned forward. "To say that the circumstances presented here are unusual would be an understatement. We find that there are no substantive discrepancies between the statements of Agent Burke and Mr. Caffrey concerning what happened at the Empire State Building. The reason for removing the anklet may not have been within the letter of the probation agreement, but, in the absence of any evidence of criminal activity, it's the general policy to give latitude to the probation officer – or in this case, the FBI handler. In addition, we have a supporting statement from Assistant Director Bancroft recommending this interpretation. Given, also, that the assault charge has been disproven, we will recommend that Mr. Caffrey's probation be reinstated. We'll certify this finding, and then the Marshals service will attach the anklet. Mr. Caffrey, you'll remain in the hearing room until that's done."

Neal nodded. "Of course."

"Any questions?" Carson asked.

Neal looked to Antonia, and she replied. "No questions, Mr. Carson. We thank you for your consideration."

Carson nodded, starting to gather up the documents in front of him. "It will take us just a few minutes to certify the paperwork. We'll consider this hearing concluded."

Neal got to his feet, turning to shake hands with his attorney. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Neal. Any friend of Nasty's…"

"An interesting nickname for a generally nice man."

"And a helpful man to know."

Neal grinned. "Very true."

"Make sure you give me a call if it turns out you'll be testifying for Peter Burke. We'll want to make sure you're protected as well."

"I will do that."

"Well, I'll just go see what needs to be signed to get you out of here."

"I'll be waiting, right here." Neal watched as Antonia moved to the front table, conversing with the Board members and a Deputy Marshal as they shuffled papers.

"The next time you talk to Sara Ellis, tell her she owes me."

Neal turned slowly to face the speaker. "Landon Shepard."

"Neal Caffrey."

"I take it you had something to do with the rather expedited scheduling of this hearing?" _He'd actually been wondering about the speed…_

"A phone call to the right person here, a reminder about certain facts there, and it's amazing what can be accomplished."

"And you're just the one to accomplish it."

"I am. I do hope you understand that the previous business with your funny little friend was nothing personal."

"Understood. Nothing personal on my side either."

"Good. You know, when your time on the anklet is done, you should give me a call."

"Is that a job offer?"

"It's a statement that we should talk." She tucked a business card into the breast pocket of his suit coat. "My contacts, your skills. We could be a good team."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." She gave him that smile that made it seem she knew every secret. _And who knew, maybe she did…_

"Thank you for the assistance with getting this scheduled."

"Well, it seemed to be for the greater good," Shepard said, turning to leave. "But remember to tell Sara she owes me."

"I'll do that," Neal replied, but he was already speaking to her retreating back.


	13. The Seven

Peter paced nervously outside the federal office building where the hearing had been held. There wasn't much of a lobby inside – not even enough to allow for decent pacing – so he'd moved to the plaza.

Every time the door opened, he paused, looking to see who came out.

If he wasn't suspended, he probably could have stayed in the hearing room. And if he wasn't under suspicion of being a murderer, of course.

The door opened again and a woman walked out. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he wasn't watching for a woman, so he let the moment pass.

A few more minutes went by, a few more people left…

The door opened again, and Peter smiled, moving forward. "Well, either the hearing went well, or you've performed another daring escape."

"The windows in the hearing room didn't open," Neal pointed out.

"No bakery awnings underneath anyway," Peter added.

Neal shrugged and lifted the leg of his pants, revealing the green light on the tracker. "She's back."

"Feels good?"

"Well, better than winding up back at Hawthorne anyway."

"Good point. Must have been dull the last few days without my company."

"No one snoring or mumbling in the bunk underneath me, no one accusing me of cheating at cards – which I most definitely was _not_ doing. No one eating up half of my canteen goods…"

"It might not be too late to change my testimony to the probation board," Peter muttered.

"Way too late," Neal said quickly.

"Well, we have other things to discuss anyway," Peter conceded. "Come on, the others are waiting at my house."

"News about James?"

Peter looked around at everyone milling in the open plaza. _Mozzie's paranoia was rubbing off… though maybe not without cause._ "We'll talk when we get to Brooklyn."

* * *

It reminded Neal a lot of the planning meetings when Burke's Seven gathered. And they had seven people again now – but with Hughes stepping in for Sara.

_Seeing the older agent at the table when he walked in had been a little surprising. But then again, maybe it shouldn't be…_

He got a quick hug from Elizabeth, a fist bump from Diana, a handshake from Jones, and a beer from Peter. But it was Mozzie's satisfied smile that kept Neal's attention.

"What do you have, Moz? Did you find James?"

Mozzie's smile grew as he pulled a photo out of an envelope and slid it across the table. "Confirmed sighting Friday night. And we know who he met."

"You didn't say anything about the meeting."

"We agreed you should just concentrate on the probation hearing," Peter supplied.

"Plus, we don't actually know where he is now," Diana added.

"We do, however, know where he'll be tomorrow night," Mozzie said.

Neal pulled out a chair and sat down. "Tell me."

"He's contacted Devlin about getting papers – _Irish_ papers," Mozzie explained.

"Irish. That explains why it would take a few days," Neal said.

"Gives us time to set up surveillance," Diana said.

Hughes spoke up for the first time. "We need to make this operation airtight, with no chance that James Bennett tips to it ahead of time, or gets away at the end."

Peter clipped a diagram to the whiteboard set up at the end of the table. "The meet is set for this warehouse at nine o'clock tomorrow night."

Jones got to his feet, walking up to the board. "James Bennett was present for some discussions during the Flynn whiskey case, as well as prior to the search of the Empire State Building. It's possible that he knows about the municipal utilities van, so we need a new plan."

"There's an empty retail storefront across the street," Diana said, as Jones pointed out the location on the map. "We're making arrangements with the owner to use the space, and we'll move monitoring equipment in through the back alley after dark tonight."

"The warehouse itself has reputedly undergone extensive renovations since the last time official blueprints were filed with the city," Hughes added. "At least, that was the report from the DEA after a huge drug bust there a couple of months back."

"Hence the reason the building is currently empty and available for clandestine meetings," Peter supplied.

"I have a source working on that," Mozzie said, checking his laptop. "I'm expecting an update at any time now."

"Then we'll know where we might be able to hide agents inside the warehouse before the meet," Diana added.

"What about this Devlin?" Hughes asked. "Will we be able to get him to wear a wire?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Not a good idea."

"He caved pretty fast the one time I dealt with him," Jones noted.

Elizabeth spoke up for the first time, grasping her husband's hand. "But surely if he knows how important it is…"

"It has to be me," Neal said, very softly.

Everyone turned to look at him. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Peter asked.

"Let's just pick Bennett up when he shows tomorrow night," Diana insisted. "We can get a confession out of him."

"He used to be a cop," Neal pointed out. "I'm sure he knows the tricks." He got to his feet and walked to the back window, looking out. "Just finding him isn't enough. We need him to admit what happened, and get it recorded."

"You think he'll talk to you?" Hughes asked.

"I think I have a better chance of getting him to talk than anyone else." Neal looked around, waiting for someone to contradict him.

No one did.

"The backstop plan needs to be foolproof," Peter said, walking up next to Neal.

"We'll work on that as soon as we get the floor plan information," Diana replied.

Mozzie had been tapping at the laptop, and he looked up. "Just sent the diagrams to your printer, Suit."

"I'd like to go check the area myself," Neal said. "Scope it out personally."

Hughes nodded. "Jones, Berrigan, you should probably check out the neighborhood in person tonight. Take Caffrey with you, let him do what he needs to do to be ready."

"I'll come with you," Peter offered.

"No," Hughes said immediately. "Peter, you're suspended. You cannot be involved in this in any way. I probably shouldn't even be letting you in on this discussion. Now I know you have Neal's best interests in mind, but you have to stay out of this."

Peter obviously wasn't happy, though he finally nodded.

"It'll be fine, Peter," Neal insisted. "You know Jones and Diana will see to that."

"Technically, I shouldn't even be letting _you_ go," Hughes said, with a sigh. "With Peter out, your status is a little up in the air."

"Well, since I'm not, technically, employed by the FBI, I'm not sure you can suspend me," Neal said. "As a confidential informant, I could just wind up in the neighborhood…"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I could suspend you." Hughes had his firm in-control tone in his voice. "But I want this resolved, and I have to agree that you're the best option to get James Bennett confessing on tape. You just need to be clear that it has to be done legally."

"I suppose that leaves out the blowgun with the darts tipped with Russian surplus truth serum…"

Everyone turned to look at Mozzie, most with an expression of disbelief. He held up his hands. "It was just an idea," he muttered, turning his attention back to the laptop.

Hughes got to his feet. "All right, I'll leave the specifics to you to plan. Let me know if I need to authorize anything, and how many agents you'll need to cover the area tomorrow night." He paused, shrugging into his suit coat. "I have a meeting with Legal about the documents from that evidence box. There's some question about what we can investigate given how they came into our possession."

Neal looked over his shoulder. "Well, they belong to me, don't they?" No one answered right away, so he turned and came back to the table. "We have a video of Ellen – well, Kathryn Hill, at the time – saying that she intended the box for me. And I'm the sole beneficiary listed in Ellen Parker's will. So if I gave them to you…"

Hughes gave that a half nod. "That's an interesting theory. I'll run it by Legal."

They watched as the older agent left, and then Elizabeth called their attention to the whiteboard. "That's the last of the floor plan printouts," she said, pointing at the pages she had posted.

Peter wasn't going to let anything as silly as a suspension keep him away from the planning. "All right, let's see what we have inside. Then you can take Neal on the field trip."

But as they started looking at the plans, Neal found that he wasn't actually paying much attention. He had every confidence that the agents would come up with a solid back-up plan; they always did.

He turned his thoughts to how to deal with James…

* * *

It was a mostly clear night, with a quarter moon high in the sky. It offered some bare illumination to the area, which was good, because most of the streetlights were out.

Actually, one light had been working the night before, but a call to Mozzie, and an additional call to have Kato bring his air gun, had taken care of that. Neal wanted it as dark as possible, the better to hide the FBI agents nearby.

He wasn't too worried about the actual command post. The storefront had windows that were boarded over, and they had hung blackout curtains on the inside. As a precaution, the agents were still working under low light conditions, but it was highly unlikely that the glow from all of the monitoring equipment could be seen from the outside.

The agents stationed on the surrounding streets, however, were a different matter. They had a variety of vehicles from the motor pool and an inter-agency selection of seized vehicles. There wasn't a Crown Vic – or a municipal van – among them. And even though some of the vehicles looked decrepit on the outside, under the hood they all sported well-tuned engines. Devlin had had no idea how James was planning to arrive at the meet, so they had to be ready for anything.

Inside the warehouse itself, Jones, Diana, and HRT agents were secreted in a back room. A definite plus from the previous drug running owners was the fact that the walls were insulated. That would have kept the heat from the meth lab from showing on a scan, and now it would hide the agents. Not that they expected James to show up with a heat signature scanner, but the room definitely offered privacy.

It also offered easy access to the main room, where the meeting would take place.

It was slightly disconcerting when he'd learned that hostage rescue agents were being placed there – he had no intention of becoming a hostage. But Hughes had explained that HRT was the most experienced group in quick, efficient takedowns.

Diana explained that HRT had the coolest toys.

Overall, Neal guess it was good they were there.

Half an hour before the appointed meeting time, Neal made his approach from the darkest side. A baseball cap hid most of his hair, which was definitely darker than Devlin's. But the jeans he wore would have looked right at home on the forger, and he wore one of the garish shirts the other man favored, with I DO ID in large lettering on the front. Neal paused for a moment on the corner with the best lighting – just enough light to reflect off of the words. If James had come to the area early to check out the meeting spot, it would have been hard to miss the figure slipping into the warehouse.

And if James hadn't come early, the exercise had at least given Neal an opportunity to see for himself that the boarded-up storefront across the way appeared totally abandoned, even with full dark settled in.

He'd refused the offer of a combat vest. Unless he could have gotten one of the Hudson vests, which really did fit with no bulges, it was too easy to see a regular vest under normal street clothing – especially under the t-shirt he was wearing.

Besides, if James was really intent on shooting him, and recognized a vest, he'd probably just go for a headshot anyway. It might be three decades since the man had been a cop, but he'd probably picked up some pointers during his years living under the radar.

The lock on the front door was laughably easy to pick, but Neal tarried over it a bit. Devlin was actually abysmal at picking locks – not that James would have reason to know that. But no sense letting anyone know of any special skills.

Once inside, he resisted the urge to check every inch of the main room. Devlin simply wasn't that paranoid, and James might have picked up on that.

Besides, Jones, Diana, and HRT had been in place for over two hours. They would have checked the whole building, and there had been none of the agreed-upon caution signs.

It would have been nice to have two-way communication on this one, but Neal hadn't wanted to take the chance of being distracted by a voice in his ear. Once James arrived, and found out who he was actually meeting, things could turn messy fast enough. So he was there with just the standard watch that doubled as a transmitter.

This time it wasn't one of the watches that faked an expensive Rolex; it was more similar to the workman-type timepiece he'd used on the DuBois case. But it did have hands that gave off a slight glow in the darkness, and so he settled in to wait, watching as the time ticked inexorably toward the top of the hour.


	14. Thirty Years

If Neal had been betting, he would have put good money on the option that he had sat there for at least a couple of hours, or maybe days. The glowing hands on the watch, however, insisted that it was only ten minutes past the appointed hour when there was the sound of the door being opened, then closed carefully.

Neal stood up, his movements as silent as they could be. He'd picked the spot carefully, near a window that allowed enough glow in so that he could be seen, but not clearly.

At least, not yet.

The shadowy figure came into view, moving slowly, one arm extended. And if Neal had been betting on _this_, he definitely would have bet that there was a gun leading the way.

_He wondered if it was still Pratt's gun…_

"You have the documents?"

And there it was, just like that, with no preamble. Contact was made.

Neal didn't say anything, just lifted his hand, holding up the passport and the other requested documents they'd picked up from Devlin.

"Always good to do business with someone who keeps his word."

At that, Neal stepped forward, into the dim light, pulling the baseball cap off his head as he did. "You have much experience with that, dad?" He'd occasionally cursed with less venom in his voice than on that last word.

James took a step closer, the gun still steady. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"No, you really shouldn't. Remember how I found you at the beginning, even though you didn't want to be found."

"Should have been a warning."

"Mozzie's had the streets of this city wired for a quarter of a century. You should have left town last week, when you still had a chance."

"Maybe so." James paused, pointing with his gun hand. "Those the real documents?"

"Yeah." Neal held up his hand again. "Irish, nice touch. I could have done better, but they're not bad."

"How about you just hand them over and I'll be on my way."

"Or what, you'll shoot me? Dad?" Again, he nearly spit out the last word. It tasted bitter in his mouth as his lips formed the sound.

"I wouldn't want to."

"That's reassuring. How about you put the gun down so we can talk – before you run out on me. Again."

James appeared to be looking around, trying to decide if this was a trap. But apparently the fact that no hordes of FBI agents had crashed the party yet reassured him, and he started to pocket the pistol.

"No, put it down, not in your pocket," Neal said, pointing off to the side. "On that crate should be fine."

"What, no trust for your old man?" But James slowly stepped to his left and set the gun down.

"How many times am I supposed to let you con me?"

"This still about Burke?"

"It's about everything," Neal whispered, taking a step closer. "But yes, Peter's part of it."

"Figures. He's really done a number on you."

Neal bit back a sharp reply – he needed to keep James talking, not drive him away. "You still have a chance to do the right thing. All you have to do is come in and tell the truth."

"I told you, I can't."

"I don't understand." Neal hated the tone of desperation that had crept into his voice, but he couldn't help it. "Ellen told me you were the best once."

"I'd like to think so."

"Then be that man again, one more time."

"It was a long time ago – a lifetime ago."

"It's not too late."

"It is."

"Why?"

"Neal, I told you, the things I've done…"

"And I told _you_, they're in the past!" Neal laughed, short and bitter.

"You don't know…"

"What do I need to know?" Neal demanded, almost shouting now. _Damn, he didn't usually lose control like this._ "You served your time for killing your supervisor. The statute of limitations is long past on anything else from back then. And I'm the _last_ one who can hold anyone to being perfect!"

It looked like James started to answer, but then he shook his head and took a step back.

Neal met the step, moving forward. _He didn't have what he needed for a confession yet._ "Do the right thing. Be Kathryn Hill's partner one more time. This is about justice for her too."

"Someone's going to take the fall, kid. I told you that. And I can't let it be me."

Neal stood, immobile, watching as James took another step toward the door. And then, as though a dam burst, he felt all of the frustrations, the pain, the confusion of the last thirty years break through. "So that's it? You just walk out again? Is that all you're good for?"

"Stop it."

But it was way too late for Neal to stop, and the words came tumbling out. "Do you even _know_ what you did thirty years ago?"

"What I had to do."

"Really? You _had_ to take my family away? Yeah, all the other kids had grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Ellen told me recently that I had them too, but I missed all of that. And in so many ways, you took my mom away too. You know, as a kid, I hardly ever saw her smile. All my friends, their moms would smile at them. _Their_ moms would even smile at me. But not my mom. I tried to be good, good enough so she'd smile. But good report card? No smile. Prizes for my art? No smile. Blue ribbon in the science fair? No smile. Role in the school play? She didn't even come, much less smile." Neal gasped in a deep breath, but he had to keep going. "Ellen tried to tell me it wasn't my fault. But I was just a little kid! All I knew was that it was just me and my mom in that house, and if she didn't smile, who else's fault could it be?"

"She used to smile," James started.

"Well, not in St. Louis!" Neal was shouting now, and he was beyond caring. "I understand it now. Because of you, she got taken away from her family, her friends, her home. Everything she knew. And instead of the hero cop she thought she married – the one she still tried to get her son to believe in – she found out he was a thief and a murderer. So she has to deal with that, and being dumped in a new city, with only Ellen for support, and a little kid, who reminded her way too much of you."

"The blue in your eyes…"

It sounded like James' voice was wavering a little now too, and Neal pressed the advantage. "She always told me you were a good cop. I'm not sure if she was more protecting me, or herself."

"I was, when we met. And I loved your mom, Neal."

_It wasn't time, not quite yet…_ "Yeah, well, you didn't show it. But finally, when I was a teenager, mom started to come around. She didn't smile a lot, but some. It was the most beautiful thing."

"I remember that smile."

"She'd let me draw her sometimes. I even won a regional art contest with one of those sketches when I was in high school."

"I told you, you're very talented."

Neal's response was a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, yeah, I remember. You said 'atta boy' and you were proud of me. You know, there was a time when I would have given anything to hear those words from you. From my _father._ There was a time I needed you – but you _weren't there_. Except, in a way, you were. Because you managed to take everything away, again. All my life, growing up, I wanted to be a cop. I studied, and I learned to shoot, and I was going to save the world. Mom and Ellen, they were pretty good at keeping secrets, or maybe I only saw what I wanted to. But they let a few things slip, about being from DC. So I did some research, found out about the police academy there. You had to be twenty one, with college credits, to actually become an officer. They had a cadet program though, and I could go to college at the same time. So I applied, got accepted." Now the laugh combined with a sob, and he didn't even try to brush away the tears wetting his cheeks. "Mom was going to be so proud of me, I just knew it. She'd smile. Except… except, she didn't smile when I told her. She looked like I had hit her instead. She cried. She cried, and locked herself in her room. And Ellen finally told me the truth, that basically my whole life had been a lie."

"I didn't know," James started.

"No? Well, guess what? There are consequences! Believe me, I understand that. Now, all the bad decisions I made over the next decade or so, those are on me. I know that. I know all you did there was shove me in that direction. But I've paid for those decisions. I paid for four years in a cell. I'm still paying for them. And I'll be paying for them the rest of my life, because no one who knows my history is _ever_ going to trust me. Except then, the strangest thing happened. One man saw something in me. One man thought I could be more than just another criminal, another statistic in the books. He gave me a chance, a second chance to do something good with my life, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. And now… now you're taking that away from me too." Neal collapsed back against a stack of crates, unable to go on.

There was a long moment of silence before James finally spoke. "Look, I'm sure Burke will be fine. Maybe he loses his job, but that's it."

Neal sniffed, and ran a hand across his eyes. "How do you figure that? It was Peter's gun, and he fired a warning shot, so there's gunshot residue on his hand. Add in the off-book investigation, and it doesn't look good."

"They can't blame you for Pratt, so you'll be okay."

"My deal was signed with Peter. If he goes down, I do too."

"Then come with me," James offered. "There's a seaplane business about a mile from here, right on Eastchester Bay. I've got a flight reserved for tomorrow morning. Straight down the coast to Florida. Sam's boat is down in the Keys."

"And how would that work?" Neal demanded. "We just sail off to the islands? A little father-son bonding time?"

"Why not? You and me, we both know how to live off the grid. Like I told you, you shouldn't take the fall on this."

_James wasn't sounding as confident now…_ Neal took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts for the final push. "Why does anyone have to take a fall? If what you told me was true…"

"It was."

"Then it was self-defense!"

"I told you, I can't take that chance. You don't understand…"

"I don't understand what? What prison can do? Four years in Sing Sing, I think I understand just fine."

"Then you know why I can't go back!"

"Just help me understand, before you disappear again," Neal prompted carefully. "Pratt had a gun."

"Yeah, pointed right at me. He'd already said he was going to shoot me, and no one would question his word that I attacked him."

"But he didn't shoot."

"Burke came in, distracted Pratt. That's when I grabbed the other gun."

"Peter's gun."

James shrugged. "I guess. I didn't know that at the time. It was just sitting there, in a bag."

"So, pistols at ten paces, with the man you blamed for ruining your life."

"Something like that. I went to prison, lost everything, while he got rich and powerful. And I wanted him to pay. But Neal, you have to believe, I didn't want him dead. I wanted him to suffer."

"Except he did wind up dead."

"He was going to shoot me!"

"Even with Peter as a witness?"

"Pratt was raising the gun. I could see his finger going for the trigger."

"You feared for your life," Neal supplied.

"Damn right I did. And who knows, he might have shot me and then made it look like I shot Burke."

Neal gave him the point. _They were so close_. "You might have saved Peter's life."

"Yeah, maybe so. It's something you learn as a cop, kid. You watch their eyes. The eyes tell the story."

"And Pratt's eyes said he was going to shoot?"

"Exactly. So I shot first. And maybe… maybe I would have stuck around. But Burke pulled out the handcuffs, and I couldn't let that happen."

"So you ran."

"Yeah, I did."

"Believe me, I'm familiar with the impulse."

James took a step closer. "Then come with me, right now. I've got a safe place for the night. And tomorrow, we're gone. We're both free. That's what you want, right?"

Neal straightened up, squared his shoulders, looking his father in the eye. "I think I got what I wanted tonight."

James looked puzzled, opened his mouth to speak, but other voices came in first.

"Freeze, FBI!"

The look in James' eyes now wasn't one that Neal recognized – 'fury' would have been the best word he could think of to describe it. And he was fast, lunging toward his gun.

Neal was faster. He grabbed the pistol, pulled it away, and stepped back. "It's over."

"You set me up! I'm your father!"

"You haven't been that for thirty years," Neal replied. And then, as FBI agents poured into the room, he leaned back against some crates and sank to the floor, head buried against his knees.

* * *

The arrest had been made, the shouting was done, and most of the agents had cleared out of the warehouse when Diana made her way to where Neal was sitting. She was pretty sure he hadn't moved at all during the whole process.

"You all right?"

He shook his head slowly, not looking up. "Not really, no."

She leaned against the crates and slid down to the floor next to him. "That was a rough one."

"Yeah." It came out almost like a sharp laugh, except there was no humor in it. "There's a reason I prefer working under an alias."

"Less painful?"

"_Way_ less."

"After the way real life pushed its way into my cover with Abigail Kincaid, I think I can understand that."

He finally looked up, the thinnest of smiles touching his face. "You used the pain, and made it work."

"So did you."

"You did get what you needed, right?"

"Yeah, we got it."

Neal nodded and then reached down next to his leg, passing the gun over. "This looks like the gun in the photos. It's probably Pratt's."

Diana pulled an evidence bag out of her jacket pocket and let him drop the gun inside. "We'll check the serial number." She sealed the bag and looked over at Neal. "You ready to go?"

"Do you think I could have a couple of minutes?"

"Sure, take all the time you need." She got to her feet, brushing off the back of her pants. "Hey, Jones said he knows a good bar not far from here. You interested?"

"I might need a double, maybe even a triple shot."

"Well, go for it. Jones said he's buying the first round."


	15. Normal?

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…_

That's the way the next week and a half felt to Peter. And sometimes the swings could be dramatic.

He was always conscious of the fact that he was still under suspicion of murder. There were teams of agents from various agencies following him any time he left the house. That decreased – slightly – after James Bennett was arrested. But apparently he was still a person of interest until everything got resolved.

At the advice of both of their attorneys, he and Neal were mostly keeping their distance. They didn't want to seem to be colluding on anything. They met for lunch a couple of times, always in very public areas, and they kept their phone conversations to a minimum – always assuming that there could be someone listening in.

The most frustrating thing was that he couldn't even talk to Neal about the take-down of James Bennett. About how proud he was of the younger man, or how he wished he had a way to help his friend with the pain he'd heard on that recording.

Of course, that would mean admitting he'd heard the recording of Neal's confrontation with his father in the first place. Being under suspension, he wasn't technically authorized for that.

_He owed Jones a seriously nice bottle of scotch for 'accidentally' leaving the recording up on his laptop while at Peter's house the next day – and then making a long visit to the bathroom._

But with any luck, this would soon be over, and life could get back to normal – not that he was even sure what 'normal' was any longer…

* * *

He tried to keep up normal appearances, but it was difficult. Even after all of the cons, the international thefts and flights from the law, the rush of planning and executing a flawless forgery, it had always been relatively easy to fall back into who he was – at least, who he was _pretending_ to be at the time.

Now, Neal wasn't sure he even knew who he was supposed to be.

He'd always pretended well, of course, and he did his best now. June started coming up each morning, and he played the gracious breakfast host. She brought up coffee and pastries, he squeezed fresh orange juice and made waffles or pancakes or fluffy omelets.

Cooking gave him something normal to hang onto.

Hughes and Bancroft had stopped by the day after his father – after _James Bennett_ – was arrested. While they acknowledged that Neal had been cleared of the assault charge, and of any repercussions regarding the removal of his anklet that fateful day at the Empire State Building, they felt it would be better if he didn't actually come to work until everything was resolved. It would help remove any appearance of bias as the FBI continued to investigate the business dealings of the late Senator Pratt.

Of course, the time he spent waiting would still count toward his sentence – they made sure to assure him of that.

Oh, and if he happened to come up with any leads about Pratt on his own, they'd be happy to hear about it.

He had lunch with Peter a couple of times, awkward meetings in places too public for them to actually have a real conversation. Still, it was good to see his friend, and they managed to spend a couple of pleasant hours saying absolutely nothing of any importance.

Jones and Diana stopped by a few times. If they happened to let slip a few details of what the investigation was turning up, no one outside the little group would ever know.

_He ran Mozzie's bug detector around the apartment a couple of times each day – more often if he was out for any appreciable amount of time._

And he did spend time away from the house on Riverside Drive. When certain leads developed by the FBI – or by Mozzie and Sally – didn't pay off in online searches, Neal took on the task of digging through the volumes of documents Mozzie had accumulated.

He only found a few things potentially related to Pratt – but by the end of the time, he knew more about alien invasions, the kidnapping of famous people and their replacement by doppelgangers, heretofore unknown assassination plots, and plans for world domination than he had ever dreamed existed.

Actually, more than he had ever even dreamed of _wanting_ to know about any of that.

He still had plenty of time to himself though – maybe too much time. Late-night hours, alone with a glass of wine and his thoughts.

* * *

It was a relief when word came of how the authorities planned to resolve all of the open questions.

The hearings took place in the federal court building and covered seven business days.

There were so many questions about what had happened, and what might have led to what happened, and what the repercussions might be. No one was really even sure what, if any, crimes had taken place in the events at the Empire State Building.

The Attorney General, working with all of the agencies with an interest in the case, had finally come up with a plan. Three judges from the 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals were assigned to hear and review the evidence and make recommendations for charges to be filed, or any other disposition that might be warranted.

Willa Sherman continued in the role of prosecutor, with a couple of Assistant US Attorneys from outside of New York acting as her staff. Anyone who was called to testify, or who had been involved in the events leading to the death of Senator Pratt, was entitled to bring legal counsel.

That made for a lot of lawyers - too many, in Peter's opinion. And sometimes it seemed that all they wanted to do was argue. In fact, pretty much the whole first day was devoted to various arguments about the procedures to be followed by the rather unprecedented tribunal.

Once the real proceedings got underway, Peter began to feel more confident.

James Bennett took the stand on Day Three. Despite the trouble they'd had in getting him to testify in the first place, he actually turned out to be a good witness. His retelling of Pratt's death matched everything that Peter had put in his initial statement. And his testimony was detailed, concise; it was easy to see the good cop the man had once, reputedly, been.

Peter's own testimony was less painful than he had feared. He hadn't really been worried about telling the tale of what had happened on the fiftieth floor of the Empire State Building, but the off-book investigation prior to that could have been an issue.

Fortunately, the subsequent investigation had uncovered so many shady and downright illegal dealings, with Terrance Pratt's virtual fingerprints all over them, that the reason for the initial probe was made quite clear.

Neal was called to testify on Day Four. He was calm and collected on the stand, answering questions with facts, no embellishments, and very little deflection. But it didn't escape Peter's notice that Neal avoided all eye contact with James Bennett.

Other witnesses took the stand over the next couple of days. Pratt's bodyguard was there, looking as though he wished he could be anyplace else. Peter heard rumors that the man had been offered an immunity deal – whatever under-the-table profit he might have made paled in comparison to the dealings of his former boss.

A regular procession of evidence experts paraded in and out of the room. They had fingerprints and video and assorted forensics.

If he was honest with himself, Peter would admit that he tuned a lot of it out. Once James confirmed what happened with Pratt, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Actually, it felt like he could breathe again.

And when Day Seven rolled around, he almost felt like he could fly.

There were closing statements in the morning, and then the judges called a recess. Peter went to a nearby café with Elizabeth and Hughes, and he made a game show of picking at his food. But the anticipation, and the exhaustion from the last few weeks, had him too wound up to actually eat much.

When the hearing reconvened, the judges announced several things.

They had recommendations for continuing the investigation into Pratt's activities. There had already been some leaks picked up by the press, and the late Senator was receiving a trial of sorts in the court of public opinion. Getting to the bottom of what he had been involved with, and getting the facts out, would help offset some of the fanciful rumors already being circulated.

Of course, sometimes, the rumors couldn't hold a candle to what had really been going on.

There were a number of governmental agencies interested in unraveling just how far the tentacles of Pratt's cabal had reached into their own organizations as well.

With no testimony or evidence to contradict a finding that Pratt's death was the result of self-defense, it was determined that James Bennett would face no charges for the shooting. And although there were some potential lesser charges that could have been filed, the recommendation was to exercise prosecutorial discretion and close the file.

Most importantly, with no testimony or evidence to contradict a finding that Pratt's death was the result of self-defense, all charges were dropped, with prejudice, against Special Agent Peter Burke.

And Peter knew that the nightmare was finally over.

Not even Hughes' warning later that there would be some changes at the Bureau could dampen his relief…

* * *

As soon as he heard the finding that all charges were dropped against Peter, Neal slipped out the side door. He felt a desperate need for fresh air.

It was a rainy day, a little on the cool side, but he went outside anyway, standing on the front steps. He couldn't even really say that he was looking at anything in particular; he just needed to be out of that building.

People started exiting the building, and he recognized a few of them as having been participants in the hearing. And then, he felt someone stop next to him.

"I guess it's over."

Neal turned, facing his father for the first time since the night James had been arrested. "I guess it is."

They stood there, in the rain, with an awkward silence between them, for a long moment before James spoke again. "You know, I have to admit, it actually felt good to get it all out in there. You were right. I should have just told the truth all along."

"I've discovered a newfound appreciation for the truth in recent times," Neal admitted. "It has its uses."

"So, what happens now?"

Neal sighed and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, extracting an envelope. "There's a plane ticket in here, LaGuardia to Miami," he said, handing it over. "And some cash, which should get you to the boat."

James took the envelope, and then hesitated, tapping it against his other hand. "That's it? I just go away?"

"I think it's for the best."

"You said one time you wanted me in your life."

There was an almost pleading tone in James' voice, but Neal had anticipated that, and he shook his head. "I said that to the man you claimed to be."

"Before I let you down, again."

"Yeah. But in the end, you did the right thing."

"You kind of forced me into that," James pointed out.

"You still could have refused to testify," Neal replied.

"Like I said, it felt good to get it all out in the open."

"And you can finally move on with your life."

James nodded, but it seemed hesitant. "Do you think… Well, any chance we can try again?"

Neal sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and slowly shook his head. "I can't even think about that right now."

"I understand. Maybe I could send you a birthday card or something, keep in touch."

"Maybe." Neal pointed at the envelope. "You should probably head for the airport. Rush hour's starting."

"Yeah." James took a step away, and then stopped. "One thing I told you, and absolutely meant. You're not me, Neal. Truth is, you're a hell of a lot better man."

And then he walked away.

Neal stood, rooted in place, watching as James Bennett walked down the steps and onto the plaza. Watching as he headed for the street, finally mingling with the growing crowd on the sidewalk.

Watching as his father walked out of his life, again.

And then he realized, again, that he wasn't alone on the steps.

"You all right?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, fine," was his rather weak reply.

"And James?"

"Heading back to Florida. I gave him a ticket to Miami."

"Probably for the best," Peter said. "At least for now."

Neal nodded. "Definitely. I just want life to go back to normal, and get back to work." It was just a flicker, but something in Peter's expression put Neal on alert. "What is it?"

Peter tried to brush it off. "Look, it's nothing to worry about."

"Peter, please."

"There's going to be an internal hearing at the Bureau," Peter finally said, sighing. "With a good chance that I'll be reassigned."

"What! But you were just cleared."

"Legally, yes. But there are still some questions from a procedural standpoint."

"Peter…"

The older man held up a hand, and Neal's protest died on his lips. "You know what," Peter said. "I'm not even going to worry about it today. And neither are you. In fact, we're both going to the office, where I have it on reliable rumor that there's a party about to start. Champagne and everything."

A party was the last thing Neal felt like, but he tried to play along. "Probably paper cups again."

"Entirely possible," Peter agreed. "But you'll drink it, and you'll like it. Now come on. El went to get the car if you want a ride."

"Actually, I need to do something first," Neal said, after just a brief hesitation. "I'll meet you there."

* * *

The party was in full swing when Neal pushed open the doors from the elevator lobby and stepped into the bullpen. He could see the conference room, filled with people, and others had gathered in the break area.

As predicted, they were drinking champagne from paper cups – and no one seemed to care much about the breach in proper bubbly protocol.

His fingers brushed over the bust of Socrates as he passed his desk. It had been a while since he'd been there, but someone had evidently dusted.

He nodded and smiled as people greeted him on his way up the stairs. He'd barely reached the door of the conference room when one of those paper cups filled with champagne was thrust into his hands.

He sipped, and it probably wasn't the vessel that made the drink stick in his throat.

Neal worked the room, smiling and talking to everyone. It was something he was good at. He joined in the toasts to Peter, and even made one himself.

Finally, he found himself at the connecting door that led into Peter's office. Of course, how long it would continue to be _Peter's office_ was an open question at the moment. But for now it was still his, with Peter's diplomas and awards on the walls, and photos of Elizabeth on the desk.

Neal laid an envelope on the desk between two of those photos and then made his way outside and down the stairs. He paused to mingle briefly in the break area to keep up appearances, even as he worked his way toward the back hall. The restrooms were that way, so no one really paid attention.

The hallway was deserted when he got there, fortunately, and it was easy to go around the back way. He took the rear stairs down one flight and then caught an elevator from there.

When he got to the lobby, he pulled out his phone to make a call…


	16. Change

The door to the apartment was standing open as Peter reached the landing, and he paused in the portal. Neal was standing in front of the glass balcony doors, seemingly staring out at the rain. He was dressed casually, jeans and a white t-shirt, and he looked very small against the grey sky beyond the windows.

Peter thought he'd been very quiet in his approach, but apparently not quite silent. He could tell the moment that Neal realized he was no longer alone. The younger man's posture tensed, and then his hands moved slowly to his sides, an empty wine goblet in one.

"I'm ready," Neal said, very softly, as he began to turn, his eyes widening in surprise as he faced the door.

Peter took the opportunity to step all the way into the room. "Not who you were expecting?"

"Not exactly," Neal admitted as he walked across the room. He turned the tap on the faucet, rinsing out the glass.

"I got something of a surprise myself," Peter said. "The Marshals' office called to say that there had been an escape on a transfer from Hawthorne, and all their deputies were on scene."

Neal still hadn't turned from the sink. "Imagine that."

Peter stepped a little closer. "They said there would be a delay in getting a team to carry out the probation revocation I had requested, and they hoped it wouldn't be too much of a problem."

"I hope you assured them the subject would be waiting quietly."

"Actually, I told them there had been a mix-up, and they could cancel the order." He took another step. "Especially since I didn't recall making the request in the first place."

"You shouldn't have done that," Neal all but whispered. "But for the record, I never called them and pretended to be you just to get out of my radius."

"Why not?"

Neal finally turned, a slightly puzzled look on his face. "I don't know. I guess it would have been cheating."

"So why now?" Peter asked.

"You should know why."

"I wouldn't be asking if I did." Neal didn't respond, just walked toward the table, leaning against the back of one chair, so Peter stepped in that direction too. "Neal, you have seventeen months left on your sentence."

"I know."

"You'd be in segregation."

Neal nodded once. "I can do it." Then he nodded again, as if trying to convince himself.

"It's not a question of whether you 'can' do it," Peter said. "Why would you want to?"

That got a short, bitter laugh from Neal. "I don't _want_ to do it. It's just the right thing to do, for everyone."

"Including you?" That just got a small shrug from Neal, so Peter continued. "Explain it to me, please, because I don't understand."

It took a moment, but Neal finally looked up and turned so they were face to face. "Do you believe I've tried to change?"

"I know you have, Neal."

Neal nodded. "I have. I really have. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"My past," Neal whispered. "My past just won't let go. And other people keep paying for it."

"Neal…"

"You like evidence," Neal said, turning away again to face the balcony. "Well, here's evidence. Kate's dead, because of me. Ellen's dead, because of me. Hale's dead, Mozzie got shot and almost died, because of me."

Neal's words were coming faster and faster, tumbling out like the rain falling from the sky outside. "Pratt's dead, Flynn's dead. Adler almost killed you and Alex – and you did have to kill him, because of me. Lindsay Gless was kidnapped so Wilkes could get to me. Keller kidnapped both you and Elizabeth, to get to me. You were just arrested, and you could have gone to prison, because of my past. And how many times have you almost lost your job…" Neal finally had to pause for a deep breath, and his shoulders shook with the effort. "You and Elizabeth have both talked about consequences a lot recently, and maybe I finally understand." He turned back to face Peter, though he didn't look up. "I need to figure out who I am," he continued softly. "Who I'm going to be."

"And you think the best place to do that is in a segregation cell?"

Neal just gave that a small shrug. "I'll have plenty of time," he said. "And no distractions."

Peter nodded slowly, considering his strategy. "That is a lot of evidence," he admitted.

"It's what you like," Neal whispered.

"Normally, yes," Peter conceded. "But let's approach this like a court case and consider the rebuttal."

"It's hard to rebut facts," Neal said wearily.

"But maybe the interpretation of those facts isn't so clear," Peter suggested.

"Peter…"

"No, you had your say," Peter countered. "Now it's my turn."

Neal just shrugged, so Peter took a moment to gather his thoughts and then began. "Kate," he said, as he slowly shook his head and sat down at the table. "I knew you were looking for her. I knew it was the main reason you proposed your deal to me. Oh, you'd help catch Hagen, but the main thing was to be out of prison so you could look for Kate. Am I wrong?"

Neal shook his head. "No."

"I didn't know exactly what you were doing to look for her, of course. But here's the thing," Peter continued. He sighed, staring down at his hands clasped on the table. "As we both know, I did find her. It would have been easy for me to put the two of you in a room and not let either of you leave until we all had some answers." It was his turn for a short, bitter laugh. "But did I do that? No, because I was convinced that she was using you. And because I was sure… I was so _damned_ sure that I was right, I didn't even consider what it was doing to you to _not_ find her. And if you think I didn't ask myself a million times how things might have been different…"

"It might not have changed anything," Neal said, and Peter watched as he stepped forward and then dropped onto a chair across the table. "Adler was still pulling the strings."

"True, and we'll never know for sure," Peter replied. "And Adler?" He paused, shook his head. "When I came around that corner and saw him, raising the gun on you, I knew it was either shoot him, or let him shoot you. And that wasn't even a choice. Taking another human life should never be easy, but I can honestly tell you that I never lost a moment of sleep over pulling the trigger there. Now what came afterward…" He paused again, struggling to find the words he wanted. And when he continued, his voice was shaking. "I lost a lot of sleep over what happened next. I lost my objectivity, something a good agent should never do. And that wound up costing me my partner, my friend, at least for a while."

"You had every right to suspect me," Neal offered quietly.

"Suspect, maybe. But convict on the spot like I did? No. After everything we'd been through together, I owed you a chance to be heard, to tell me your side. Who knows how differently things might have played out."

"That treasure was a lot of temptation, Peter. I might still have fallen."

"Maybe. But maybe I would have been there to catch you when you fell. At least I wouldn't have pushed you further away. It's just something else we'll never know."

Neal was nodding slowly. "So much can hinge on a single moment."

Peter nodded too. "Yes, it can. Like that moment in the Empire State Building, with Pratt and James."

"You can't say that wasn't my fault."

"Of course I can. Neal, you're not James."

It was Neal's turn to stare at his hands, fingers twitching nervously. "I brought him into your life."

"Well, that much is true. Though as I recall, you actually tried to keep me away from him – and I sort of insisted on being invited in." Neal apparently had no reply to that, still staring at his hands on the table, so Peter pushed on. "The thing is, Neal, once I was in, I believed James. I believed that he was a good man who made mistakes, who tried to get himself out, and who got caught up in something much bigger than anything he had bargained for."

"You believed him because of me."

"Well, I _wanted_ to believe him because of you, yes. But the thing is, I really did believe him." Peter reached across and tapped the table, waiting until Neal looked up. "And believe me, by your words and actions, you proved that you're a much better man than your father."

One corner of Neal's mouth rose in something that was part grimace, part bitter smile. "But you're still losing your job. Again."

"I'm being reassigned. That's not the same as losing my job."

"Semantics," Neal argued.

"Not at all," Peter countered. "Reassignment just means change. It doesn't have to be bad." He paused, smiling a little. "Let's think about those other times. Fowler tried to frame you for that diamond heist, but he also came after me with Clark and that bribery charge, and he threatened Elizabeth. Punching him was worth every minute of that two week suspension. Well, except that it meant I didn't have a badge when you needed me most."

"You mean after the plane exploded?" Neal shook his head. "There wasn't anything else you could have done, Peter."

"I might have been able to keep you from getting sent back to prison."

"Not sure anyone could have done that. There were too many questions."

"You shouldn't have been alone."

"I needed the time to get my head together again. And there were only a few rumors about me working for the Feds at that point, so it wasn't that bad."

"Well, I guess we can't change it anyway," Peter admitted. "But that suspension was all on Fowler. And with Julian Larrsen? As I recall, you had agreed to do things my way on that one."

"So you're saying you're not perfect?" Neal asked, the first hint of a real smile playing at his lips.

"Well, most of the time I am," Peter insisted, allowing a small smile himself. "Just not always."

"Right."

"And this last time," Peter continued, wanting to move on. "Kramer crossed the line, and I told you to run. But that didn't mean I stopped feeling responsible for you, or that I stopped missing you. When I inadvertently led Collins to you… Well, I had to try and make it right. Hughes told me I needed to decide what was important, and if it was you, he'd understand, but he couldn't protect me. I understood that, Neal, and I made my choice. Just like you made the choice to trust me that bringing in MacLeish would let you come home."

"And when there isn't trust, there's faith," Neal said softly.

"Yeah, there is," Peter agreed.

Neal looked as though he was about to say something else, but then he turned and stared at the apartment door; a moment later, Peter could hear the footsteps and voices coming up the stairs. "I thought you said the Marshals weren't coming," Neal said.

"They aren't." Peter got to his feet. "But people were wondering where you disappeared to, so I may have told them the party was moving over here."

"You what?"

"Just a small group," Peter said, trying not to laugh at the shocked look on Neal's face. "But you should probably at least put a different shirt on," he added, pointing at the t-shirt. "You don't look dressed for a party."

"No, I suppose not."

Peter stepped around the table and put a hand on Neal's should, gently propelling him toward the hallway. "Go change. We'll talk more later."

* * *

Neal stepped out onto the balcony, taking in a deep breath of the fresh air. The rain had stopped, though the leaden grey skies held the threat of more precipitation to come. And the wind had picked up as dusk began to fall, the stiff breeze whipping at the loose sleeves of the silk poet shirt he'd hurriedly pulled on as the unexpected party moved into his apartment.

_Not dressed for a party. Right…_

That had been almost two hours earlier, and a few of the 'small group' of people had started to head for home. Even the celebration of definitively clearing Peter's name had to wind down at some point.

The city lights were winking on, the glow familiar, comforting. Neal took a sip of champagne - which was at least now contained in a proper glass flute, courtesy of June.

And then he was aware that he was no longer alone.

"Never get tired of that view," Peter said as he stepped up alongside.

"Never."

"So, I was thinking we could continue our discussion from before."

"I'm not sure it really changes anything, Peter."

"What do you mean?"

"I still signed the revocation form."

"Oh, that." Peter gave that a grave nod as he sipped from his own flute. "You know, in a big office, sometimes paperwork goes missing."

"Missing."

"Yup. Or gets shredded. Accidentally."

"Shredded."

"It happens."

"There's no shredder in your office."

"That's true."

"In fact, the nearest shredder is behind…"

"Behind Arlene's desk," Peter finished. "Outside Hughes' office."

Neal nodded, looking out over the city. "So, you just happened to walk behind Arlene's desk."

"Getting reacquainted with the office after being gone so long."

"Uh huh. And then the form just happened to fall into the shredder."

"That's the way I remember it."

"And the shredder just happened to be on."

"Never know when something might need shredding."

Neal nodded, taking another sip. "I can always print out another form."

"I can always confiscate your printer," Peter countered. "If, as your handler, I deem it detrimental to your probationary status."

"A printer?"

"It could happen."

"Then I could…"

"It might be detrimental for you to have access to the office printers as well," Peter continued. "I'm sure the IT department could take care of that. As your handler…"

"Not for much longer," Neal pointed out.

"Maybe not. Then I'd just have to do it as your friend."

Neal didn't answer right away, staring out at the growing display of lights. "It's not right," he finally said.

"What, my getting reassigned?"

"Exactly. You didn't do anything wrong. Why should they take you away from a job you do better than anyone else could?"

"You know, change doesn't always have to be a bad thing, Neal. Sometimes it's good to shake things up a little bit."

"So you'll be fine with it if they send you back to the Cave?"

"Well, I'll admit, that wouldn't be my first choice. And I don't think that's what's going to happen. But the thing is, evidence is important."

"You may have mentioned that once or twice," Neal muttered.

"Glad you were listening!"

"Over and over and over…"

"Anyway," Peter said, cutting off the complaint. "The reassignment may only be temporary. And if it's the Cave, I'll make it work. Just like you'll make it work with a new handler."

"I made my deal with you."

"So you're saying you are incapable of providing Caffrey brilliance with someone else?"

"Oh, sure, I can be a tool on another agent's belt."

"Neal, this isn't another Kimberly Rice situation."

Neal turned to face the agent, eyebrow raised. "No? How can you know that?"

"Well, for one thing, you'll still be in White Collar, as will Jones and Diana. They'll have your back. Plus, Hughes is sticking around as Bureau Chief until all of the Pratt connections are sorted out."

Neal looked over Peter's shoulder, to where Hughes and Bancroft were involved in an animated discussion with June. "He could be around for a while then."

"I think he's kind of counting on that," Peter agreed. "Not a man for early retirement – but a man with a lot of influence. And he's in your corner, Neal."

_You're a son of a bitch… but you're the best damn son of a bitch…_ Neal considered those words, spoken by the elevators, what seemed a lifetime ago now. He'd gotten a new understanding of the senior agent in that brief encounter. "It'll be good to have him there."

"Good for Hughes, and good for the department," Peter agreed. "And the thing is, Neal, even if we're not working together every day, that doesn't mean our paths won't cross."

"Yeah, there might be another water delivery truck that needs to be reviewed by Evidence."

"Or a mob case that crosses over into White Collar," Peter countered. "Regardless, it doesn't change us, Neal, you and me."

Neal sighed and turned to lean against the parapet. "No?"

"We've been through too much together to let it." Peter stepped up alongside. "Hey, remember that conversation at my house, the day before… Well, the day before. You said family doesn't just turn up after thirty years?"

"I remember."

"Well, the thing is, sometimes they _do_ just show up at your doorstep, when you least expect it. And you come downstairs in your own house, and you find them sitting on your couch, talking to your wife, playing with your dog."

"Do you threaten to send them all to prison?"

Peter laughed and nudged Neal's shoulder with his own. "Only the special ones."

"Right." Neal couldn't help but smile a little himself, remembering.

"Because the thing is," Peter continued. "Family isn't just about blood. It's the people you let into your life. The ones you'd do anything for, and the ones who you know would do anything for you in return. You always have faith that family will be there when it counts."

"So it's just luck of the draw, for better or worse."

"Pretty much," Peter agreed. "But remember what else I said that day?"

"You said the Empire State Building had a big boiler room."

"Well, yes. But I was specifically thinking about telling you that I'd do it all again. Remember that?"

"I do."

"Of course, there are a few experiences I could do without repeating," Peter added.

Neal nodded heartily in agreement. "Me too."

"Maybe there's something we can do to help that along."

"Like what?"

"Well, like what we're doing now."

Neal glanced over his shoulder at the people still gathered inside. "Celebrating you _not_ going to prison for a crime you didn't commit?"

Peter laughed softly and shook his head. "I'm kind of hoping that's a one-time deal. But I was thinking something a little more immediate. What we're doing here, just you and me."

"Talking."

"Exactly. Look, Neal, we'll always have some secrets from each other. It's who we are. But maybe…"

"Maybe we could try having fewer secrets," Neal finished.

"Yeah. What do you think – worth a try?"

"I'm generally open to new experiences."

"Good. We can get together over beer, or wine…"

"The wine has to have a cork."

"And the beer has to be domestic. Tell you what, when it's beer night, I'll buy. You can be in charge of wine night."

"That sounds fair."

"So, we're good? Or do I have to confiscate the printer?"

"Keep your hands off my Epson."

"I imagine Mozzie would just show up with a Canon anyway."

"Moz is actually more of a Lexmark guy."

They both laughed, and then Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Sometimes change can be a good thing. We'll just have to see. But we're all right, you and me, right?"

"Yeah," Neal replied, nodding. "We're good."

"Good."

"So, when do you get your new assignment?"

"I'll have a meeting first thing Monday morning. I think they're planning to have some ideas on your new handler by then too, even if the agent isn't in the office yet."

"And until Monday?"

Peter looked over his shoulder, a soft smile on his face. "Until then, I'm taking my wife out of town for some much needed and well deserved R&R."

"The Rusty Egret?"

"All confirmed."

"No stops on the way out of town this time."

"No, absolutely not." Peter shook his head forcefully. "I'm filling the gas tank on the way home tonight. Then in the morning it's out the door, into the car, and straight to Vermont."

"Sounds like a good plan. Do you need me to watch Satchmo?"

"Nope, Satch is taken care of." Peter paused for a dramatic moment. "Besides, you're going to be busy."

The sly smile playing at Peter's lips was a bit suspicious, Neal decided. "I am?"

"Yup. Bancroft's decided to stay in town for a few days."

"Really."

"And he's taking the time off work."

"You don't say."

"He has this whole list of museums and galleries to visit – and he figured you'd be the perfect one to go along."

"Me, with Bancroft, for three days."

"Four! He's not going home until Sunday."

"Four days."

"Yeah. Come on, you like that kind of stuff. And I thought the two of you had a good time at that White Bored exhibit."

"It wasn't bad," Neal admitted.

"Well, apparently Bancroft thought it was pretty good," Peter replied. "And you know, when that anklet comes off in seventeen months, having an Assistant Director of the FBI in your corner might not be so bad."

"That could be true."

"Just remember, no 'shopping' outside of the gift shops in the museums."

Neal gasped and slapped a hand to his chest. "I'm wounded."

"Of course you are."

"But I'll feel better if you bring me the syrup you owe me."

"That I _owe_ you?"

"Yeah. I gave you the new alarm code, but I never got the syrup."

"Well, I never got to Vermont."

"Still, you got the code for free."

"I wouldn't have needed the code if you hadn't changed my alarm system."

"I was only thinking of you, Peter."

"What?"

"Your security. It's important to change codes now and then."

"Yes, because some sneaky, light-fingered thief might change it – while I was being kidnapped, no less."

"You think I'm sneaky?"

"You probably think that's a compliment."

"And I didn't know you were being kidnapped."

"So not the point, Neal."

"No, the point is, I never got my syrup!" Neal insisted. "I suppose I could change the code again."

"I'm calling the Marshals to have the exemption for my house removed," Peter muttered.

"That would make it more challenging, but not impossible."

"No, you'd just get Mozzie to do it."

"Oh, I hadn't even thought about that! Thanks, Peter."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "How about if I just promise to bring you some syrup."

"Not nearly as much fun."

"Neal…"

Neal grinned. "All right. As long as I get syrup."

"Tasting the pancakes already?"

"Actually, I have this great recipe for maple syrup brined and glazed ribs."

"That actually sounds good."

"Maybe I'll make it for one of our 'talk' nights. It'll have to be a wine night, though, no beer…"

"Beer goes great with ribs!"

"Not my maple brined and glazed ribs."

"Fine," Peter capitulated with a grin. "Wine night it is. But right now, I'm going to go inside and find my wife so we can head home and get packed." He drained the last of his champagne. "You should come in and work out tomorrow's itinerary with Bancroft."

"Yeah, be there in a minute." Neal watched as Peter went inside, and then he turned to look out over the city once again.

_No, you sure couldn't beat that view…_

He turned again, looking into the apartment, at the people gathered there. Mozzie wasn't present, of course – too many Suits – but other than that, they pretty much represented his chosen family. The people he'd do anything for, and the ones he knew would be there for him when it counted.

He drained his own champagne flute and stepped toward the door.

_It didn't get much better…_


End file.
